


Jump

by ficthepainaway



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: (roth is older than jacob and uh...grooming him), Alternate Universe - High School, Anal Sex, Assassin's Creed: Syndicate, Consensual Underage Sex, Deepthroating, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-05-10 20:50:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 63,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5600377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficthepainaway/pseuds/ficthepainaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If pressed to find an analogy, Freddy would say Jacob Frye was the living result of someone casting black magic on a peer pressure PSA. He drank, he smoked, he broke into school buildings after dark. Jacob Frye was the boy parents warned their children about, and Freddy—well. Freddy was caught in his web.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dangerous

**Author's Note:**

> FYI on listed relationships: while Henvie and Rothfrye both make an appearance, the focus and momentum here is Jacob x Freddy, as the story summary suggests. 
> 
> FYI on squicky tags: Jacob and Roth are in a consenting relationship, but it starts when Jacob is a young teen (examined briefly in chapter ten) and Roth is manipulative from day one.

"Hi," Freddy said, adjusting the strap of his bag, heavy as always with too damn many books. "I'm here for Jacob? I'm his calculus tutor."

Until this point, the freckled girl who had answered the door at 324 Meridian Terrace had been looking at him with the kind of bland curiosity you could expect of someone answering the door to a stranger. But when Freddy said the words "calculus tutor," she lit up, going from neutral to jubilant at the speed of the Big Bang.

"Jacob's calculus tutor?" She issued a peal of laughter that made Freddy jump in alarm, then she intoned, "Oh, _do_ come in."

Freddy followed the girl inside, hesitating, wondering what kind of joke he was walking into.

"I'm Evie, by the way," she said, closing the door. "Are you new at school?"

"Yeah," Freddy replied, unbuttoning his peacoat and wiping the rain off his glasses on the dry edge of his sweater. "I'm Frederick."

"Frederick," Evie echoed, nodding once like she was committing it to memory. "Follow me. Jacob's in the living room."

Evie led Freddy through a branching hallway full of family photos he didn't pause long enough to look at, then through a kitchen with an enormous center island. The kitchen connected to a dining room with a table that was half-covered by mail and shopping bags, and the dining room connected to a warm, cluttered living room. It had light-colored leather couches and chairs, a big entertainment center flanked by more family photos, an unlit fireplace, and a slightly dusty piano in one corner of the room.

Someone sat on the couch, head bent, his back to them.

"Jacob," Evie said, tone wicked, "your calc tutor is here."

Jacob didn’t look up. "Ha ha," he grumbled, offhand.

Evie glanced at Freddy and tilted her head toward Jacob, encouraging. Freddy cleared his throat and put in, "Uh, hi."

That got Jacob's attention. He turned, one elbow coming up to rest on the couch cushions. "What the fuck?" he said, looking Freddy up and down. Freddy felt pinned to the spot, a wild, horrible thought surging through his brain: _You look like one of the catalog models I used to jerk off to before I could stream porn._ Jacob demanded, "Who are you?"

"Frederick?" he said. "Your—calculus tutor." They'd already covered most of this.

"Nah," Jacob replied, a corner of his mouth turning up. "Who sent you? Was it Ned?"

Unsure, Freddy asked, "Is that the name of the man at the tutoring center?"

Jacob's smirk faded, gradual, then his face twisted into a scowl. Freddy was giving serious consideration to fleeing the scene when a woman appeared in another doorway off the living room, her fingers at work securing a hair tie at the end of a long braid. Her eyes landed on Freddy and he steeled himself for another weird and uncomfortable interaction with a member of the Frye clan.

The woman smiled, a spitting image of Evie (or, he supposed Evie was a spitting image of her). "You must be Frederick," she said, cheerful.

"Yes," he replied, thinking, _finally_. He stepped forward, extending a hand. The woman shook it, looking impressed. (Freddy had that effect on most adults.) "It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Frye."

"Cecily, please," she corrected.

Out of the corner of his eye, Freddy could see Jacob gesticulating at them. "What the hell is this?" he wheezed, on his knees on the couch now.

"Frederick's going to be your math tutor," Cecily explained, because apparently this wasn't sinking in. Out of the corner of his eye, Freddy could see Evie practically vibrating with excitement.

Jacob shook his head. Voice high, he protested, "I don't need a math tutor!"

"Your grades so far this semester—and last year and the year before that—suggest otherwise," Cecily replied evenly.

"I can _do_ math," Jacob countered. Evie laughed at this, which made Jacob point a threatening finger at her. "I just—choose not to."

"I have no doubt that is the truth, which makes this all the more painful for me," Cecily said, not sounding pained in the slightest. She actually sounded delighted. "But a few hours with Frederick every Wednesday and Sunday should have you doing just enough work to get a C, which would thrill me, Jacob, honestly. Plus you'll be helping Frederick here get valuable volunteer hours, which will look great on his college applications."

"Yet another thing Jacob 'could do but chooses not to,'" Evie muttered out of the side of her mouth.

"That reminds me…" Freddy opened his messenger bag and dug out the folder where he'd tucked his timesheets. "I'm supposed to give these to you so you can sign off on my time after the tutoring sessions, Mrs. Frye. I have to turn them in at the beginning of every month."

Cecily took a timesheet, glancing down at the table printed on it. "Perfect. I'll hang this on the fridge." She started back toward the kitchen and, raising her voice as she went, asked, "Do you want anything to snack on, study buddies? Or to drink? We've got water, soda, juice…"

"No thank you, Mrs. Frye," Freddy called back.

Jacob stood from the couch, tugging at the collar of his shirt to straighten it. He made one last attempt to stall, saying, "Well, we'll have to wait until Sunday anyway. I didn't bring my calc homework home."

"Oh, I have it all here," Freddy told him, lifting his bag an inch. "I have a textbook plus a week's worth of assignments from Mrs. Platt. We can share."

Jacob glared at him, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He turned the phone in his hand over a few times, almost like he was contemplating throwing it at Freddy before making a run for it.

"Well then," Jacob said, making a tight motion in the direction of the dining room. "After you, _Freddy_."  
  


* * *

  
Jacob wasn't lying about being able to do math. Freddy explained the different problems to him as they went, and Jacob followed along easily enough. He whirred through the work, filling his notebook with chicken scratch that appeared to hold correct answers.

No sooner had Freddy thought, _y'know, this might actually be pretty painless,_ than things took a turn for the weird. That's when Jacob shifted his attention away from his homework…and onto Freddy.

At first he thought it was an accident, the way Jacob's calf lined up with his under the table. Freddy gave it a second, then surreptitiously scooted over a couple of inches. Jacob changed tracks, reaching his arm behind Freddy to rest over the back of his chair and leaning close—too close—while Freddy tried to explain the chain rule.

The tutoring center had given them a lot of skills training. They'd taught them how to turn an inherent knowledge of a school subject into good teaching practices, how to facilitate group discussion, how to nurture students' strengths to minimize their weaknesses, how to deploy "positive problem solving." One thing the tutoring center hadn't gone over was how to deal with a persistently flirtatious tutee.

And Freddy may have been able to cope if Jacob wasn't so…dreamy. Watching him work, Freddy realized his initial impression of "catalog model" didn't do Jacob Frye justice—he was more striking than that. He had this dark hair that was at this perfect middle-length between shaggy and long. And these pink, pink lips that he worried between his teeth while he solved problems. Jacob Frye was like a 28-year-old cast as an 18-year-old on TV, complete with an angular jaw lined with even, unbroken scruff that no other age-appropriate high school senior could grow, Freddy included.

Freddy got by for a while by ignoring Jacob, pretending he wasn't lingering too close, wasn't gazing at him too intently through those hazel eyes. But seeing he wasn't getting the effect he wanted, Jacob upped the ante. He slid his hand up the back of Freddy's neck, making him jolt, sending shivers up his spine and down his limbs.

"Freddy?" Jacob said, low. Freddy glanced at him, then away, then back again. "Wanna take a study break? We can head upst—"

Evie chucked a pink eraser at Jacob from where she was working at the far end of the table, and it hit him right in the nose.

Jacob removed his hand from Freddy's neck, and Freddy wasn't sure if that was a great relief or disappointment. " _Evie_ ," Jacob spat, "what the hell?"

"You'll have to excuse my brother," Evie said, apparently to Freddy even if her eyes were on her textbook. "When he senses the opportunity, he tries to flirt his way out of work he doesn't like. It isn't personal."

Jacob lobbed the eraser at Evie (who caught it in one hand) then turned his gaze back on Freddy. He twitched an eyebrow and asked, "Was it working?"

What Freddy thought was _God, yes,_ but what Freddy said was, "You know, it's almost six anyway. This assignment isn't due until Friday—I'm sure you can finish it on your own." He tore a corner off a page in his notebook and wrote on it, explaining, "This is my number. Text me if you have any questions, okay?"

Jacob took the scrap of paper between his index and middle fingers, smiling in a way Freddy didn't like.


	2. My Type

It had only been two days since their first tutoring session, but already Freddy saw a fissure forming in his timeline. He had started to think of his time at Animus Academy in two distinct parts: before and after Jacob Frye.

In those short two months before Jacob Frye, Freddy only half-noticed the people he passed in the building. He got an occasional nod of hello from guys on the basketball team who remembered Freddy from playing against him when he went to North. He didn't really recognize the people he had classes with because, thanks to this school's servile obedience to alphabetical seating charts, he was always seated in the very front. At lunch, Freddy usually snuck off to the (conveniently cafeteria-adjacent) library to eat so he didn't have to navigate the murky waters of choosing a table and making small talk with the people sitting there. Up until mid-October, Animus Academy was just a sea of unfamiliar faces, and Freddy was content to hide among them.

Now he saw one person everywhere: Jacob. Standing a few links ahead of him in the lunch line. Passing Freddy on his way out of the locker room after his gym period, fingers combing through wet post-shower hair. Walking out the side door by Freddy's far-flung locker in the middle of the day, cutting class and definitely making no effort to hide it. 

Freddy could spot Jacob coming a mile off, dark head bent in conversation with one or more of his group of friends who Freddy, not knowing their names, had nicknamed in the manner of the Seven Dwarfs. There was Floppy, the one with wavy hair and long sideburns who was always talking at top speed. There was Shorty, the small and sharply-dressed guy who had a constant look of being up to something. There was Girly, the one who—was a girl. (Freddy wasn't proud of any of these monikers, but he was least proud of Girly.) He didn't know them, but that didn't stop Freddy's irrational desire to _be_ one of them—to spend his days caught up in the sexually frustrating hurricane that was Jacob Frye.

In the meantime, he'd have to settle for text messages. That was another thing that changed in the before- and after-Jacob dichotomy. Before he'd get texts only sparingly, from his dad on the topic of dinner or from his old friend Aubrey Shaw, who occasionally filled him in on what tiresome trends at his old school carried on. Now his phone buzzed far more frequently, Jacob Frye testing Freddy's limits for being a fair and encouraging tutor.

**Yesterday 4:40 PM**

**Jacob**  
what's the answer for #17

**Freddy**  
What do you have?

**Jacob**  
3.554

**Freddy**  
It's supposed to be a graph. Are you looking at the right number?

**Jacob**  
wait, i meant #18

**Freddy**  
That's also a graph.  
Did you even look at the textbook before trying to trick me into giving you the answers?

**Jacob**  
no  
it was worth a shot though, right?

**Freddy  
** Please do your homework, Jacob.

—

**Yesterday 10:34 PM**

**Jacob  
** so, hypothetically  
if i started doing spectacularly well in calc because a guy named robert topping stole a teacher's edition of the textbook and handed it off to me   
would you still need to be my tutor?

**Freddy  
** I guess not. Though if you copy your work straight from the teacher's edition, Mrs. Platt will figure out what you're doing and flunk you.

**Jacob** ****  
what if i purposefully got some of the homework wrong  
like, a believable average number of wrong answers to the perfect answers   
(still hypothetical)

**Freddy** ****  
Maybe if you made sure to get certain types of problems wrong consistently, and other types right consistently, but also learned how to do the ones you're copying from the textbook so you can do them right on tests as well, that might work.

**Jacob  
** when you put it like that it sounds like more work than just learning calc

**Freddy  
** Yeah.

**Jacob  
** well played, freddy  
i guess i should've saved the blowjob i bartered with until after he got me the book, huh?

**Freddy  
** TMI

**Jacob  
** kidding, freddy, jeez  
though i WILL suck your dick if you do my homework for me

**Freddy  
** Just do your homework.

**Jacob  
** standing offer

—

**Yesterday 11:42 PM**

**Jacob  
** get it?  
(standing like erect) 

**Freddy  
** I'm going to bed now. 

**Jacob  
** nice  
what're you wearing? 

**Freddy  
** Goodnight, Jacob.  
Please turn in your assignment tomorrow. 

—

**Today 8:28 AM**

**Jacob**   
what's the answer for #20

**Freddy  
** I'm in class. 

**Jacob**   
hey, me too. so #20?

**Freddy  
** I don't know. I don't have your calc book with me.  
What's the integral of (1/cabin)d(cabin)?  

**Jacob**   
?

**Freddy**   
A natural log cabin.

**Jacob**   
don't get it

**Freddy**   
You would if you did your homework.   
Do your homework please.

—

**Today 10:06 AM**

**Jacob**   
i looked up a calc joke for you

**Freddy**   
OK, hit me.

**Jacob**   
what does calculus have in common with your dick

**Freddy  
** Never mind.  
Stop typing. 

**Jacob**   
they're both hard for me

—

**Today 10:28 AM**

**Jacob**   
seriously though, do you know the answer for #20? i have to turn this assignment in in like 10 mins

**Freddy  
** NO. 

—

Under other circumstances, Freddy would have turned Jacob in and asked for a new tutee. Problem was, he really did enjoy Jacob's attention, even if it was only meant to irritate him. He was probably doing a disservice to all of Jacob's future classmates and coworkers by not teaching the guy the consequences of sexual harassment upfront, but the nervous thrill that came with watching the "composing message" dots appear under Jacob's name in his phone was the only fun Freddy had had since his dad moved them out to the suburbs.

It all seemed pretty harmless until Friday at lunch. Freddy was making his normal path toward the library, lunch tray in hand, when he heard someone say his name.

"Hey, Abberline." Freddy looked around and spotted the speaker: Crawford Starrick, the uncontested MVP of the Animus boys' basketball team. Starrick tilted his head at an empty seat at his table. "Sit with us." The way he said it didn't make it sound like an offer. It sounded like a command.

Freddy glanced into the library—he already had an elbow against the door, and it was so warm and free of social interaction inside. But he took a deep breath, reminded himself that good relationships with teammates off the court facilitated good relationships on the court, and made his way over.

Freddy sat down and nodded at the people around the table. "Hey."

"Guys, you know Abberline," Starrick said. "He used to play for North."

"Oh, right," said Kaylock, a hulking brute of a player who Freddy had had the displeasure of guarding once or twice when his taller teammates were subbed out. "Didn't recognize you with the specs."

"Yeah," Freddy said, touching his fingers to the edge of his clear-framed glasses. "I wear contacts when I play."

"Obviously," Starrick put in.

Freddy gave the faces around the table a weak smile. He surreptitiously checked the time on his phone before setting it on the table. He could be chill for twenty minutes.

"As a refresher, that's Kaylock. This is Millner," Starrick indicated a weedy kid whose blond hair had already started to recede, "Ferris," a stocky boy who'd once checked Freddy so hard into the mats behind the backboard that he ended up missing both his free throws, eyes swimming with stars, "and Green."

Henry Green was someone Freddy remembered, not just because he was one of the only people in New Greenwich who wasn't white (though Freddy wasn't post-racial enough to pretend that wasn't a factor), but also because he was one of the few boys on the Animus team who played fair. Everyone else at this table was the type of guy who'd try to break your fingers when they shook your hand.

"This is Lucy," Starrick continued, pointing to the purse-lipped redhead who Freddy had sat down next to, "and Pearl," he finished, nodding to the girl who sat on Starrick's right.

"Pearl," Freddy repeated, remembering. "You're on the girls' basketball team, right? I've seen you play—you're a force to be reckoned with." As fast and ruthless anyone on the boys' team, Pearl Attaway had carried the Animus girls' basketball squad to the state tourney the previous year. They hadn't taken home the gold though, probably because Animus kids spent more than half their season playing under the eyes of biased refs. They didn't know how to operate when the officials weren't making the vast majority of calls in Animus' favor.

Pearl gave Freddy this weird sympathetic look, like he was a puppy with no back legs who she liked but really thought should be put out of its misery. "Thanks, Abberline," she said neutrally.

"Will you try out for the Animus team next month, Frederick?" Henry asked him between bites.

"Yeah, of course," Freddy said, smiling. "If you'll have me."

Henry opened his mouth to reply, but Starrick got there first, saying, "Well, the whole point of tryouts is to determine if we'll have you, isn't it?"

Freddy looked at his plate. He had this much to say about spending his senior year at a nice school in a rich suburb: it had better food, making it that much easier to pretend he was interested in and distracted by it.

"He was a starter at North, right?" Millner said uncertainly. "They have way more students there. There's no way he wouldn't make varsity here."

"We'll see," Starrick responded, disinterested.

"Well, I for one wouldn't mind getting to make up some new cheer material," Lucy commented. "What rhymes with Abberline?" she continued, looking at Freddy. She leaned toward him, like getting a close-up on his pores would provide the answer. He shifted away.

"Twine?" Ferris supplied. "Decline. Frankenstein."

"No, I've got it," Lucy declared, walking her fingers up Freddy's arm. He looked sideways at her. " _Valentine_."

Starrick grunted, "Cute."

"Oh," Henry said, sing-song. "That Abberline, he's so _divine_."

"Wine and dine me; Abberline me," Lucy added.

Freddy pushed his food around with his fork, mumbling, "This sure is a fun game."

"Know what else rhymes with Abberline?" Starrick said. "Columbine." The table went silent but for the sound of Millner clearing his throat. "Now give it a rest."

Freddy wasn't sure if he was meant to thank Starrick for that sinister save or not. That's when Freddy's phone buzzed twice in quick succession, saving him the trouble of acknowledging it at all.

Lucy grabbed it.

"Who's _Jacob_?" she said, with a teasing look. Freddy lunged for the phone, but Lucy held it away, reading. Her face fell.

Lucy turned the phone toward Starrick, who squinted at it then frowned.

"Jacob Frye, I'll bet," he concluded. "Friend of yours?" he asked Freddy, all disdain.

"No, I just tutor him," Freddy explained. It felt like a betrayal, even if it was true. He and Jacob weren't friends, even if Freddy wanted them to be.

He snatched his phone back from Lucy and looked at the screen.

**Jacob  
** wait, do you hang out with those twats?  
you break my heart, freddy 

Starrick held up a middle finger, his gaze on a point over Freddy's head. Freddy looked over his shoulder and spotted Jacob, sitting on a table with his feet on the chair. Jacob locked eyes with Freddy and pulled a surprised expression, covering the little "o" of his mouth with his fingertips.

Freddy turned back to Starrick and his cronies, unlocking his phone and going straight for the setting to disable text message previews. "Sorry," he said to no one in particular.

"Not your fault that guy's an apex asshole," Ferris returned, shrugging.

Evenly, almost obliviously, Henry said, "Jacob's not so bad." Freddy looked up from his phone long enough to see Starrick glower at Henry, who appeared unmoved. (Freddy knew he liked Henry for a reason.)

"Please," Starrick said, basically oozing distaste. "I went to junior high with that prick. Did you know he used to be a three-sport athlete before he decided that it made him look like too much of a tryhard or something? It's like one day he started listening to shitty indie music and the next he traded in his captain's badge for an army jacket and a bunch of stoner pals."

"You sound bitter, Crawford," Pearl interjected, posh. She brushed some invisible dust from Starrick's shoulder. "It doesn't suit you."

This piqued Freddy's interest. He had questions, like what Jacob was like before the "shitty indie music" and whether he was good at any of the sports he'd quit to pursue a life of truancy and PG-13 text messages.

Freddy remembered Starrick from eighth grade basketball—that was during the brief sliver in time when Freddy was one of the tallest boys on his team, meaning he had to pit his vertical against Starrick's during tip-off. He didn't remember Jacob though (and he probably would have, given how around that same time Freddy had cultivated a keen interest in dark-haired, dark-eyed boys, which in turn led him to see _Inception_ five separate times in theaters because of Joseph Gordon-Levitt).

That probably meant that Jacob had been on a different athletic track at the south metro junior high school he and Starrick went to: contact sports. Where Freddy had been on the swim and dive team (which he gave up when it occurred to him to be self-conscious about wearing a Speedo), basketball team, and track team, Jacob must've pursued football, hockey, and baseball.

Staring off into the middle distance, Freddy held a vivid image in his mind's eye: Jacob Frye, pulling a football helmet from his head in slow motion, hair damp with sweat, face breaking into a radiant smile. It just wasn't fair.

His phone vibrated.

**Jacob  
** did i get you in trouble? 

_Not yet,_ Freddy thought.

**Freddy  
** I'm fine.

Freddy crammed the rest of his food in his cheeks so he could leave the table to bring his tray back to the kitchen. He could stretch that activity out for a while. "Thanks for letting me sit with you guys," Freddy said around a mouthful of coleslaw. He stood to leave, suspecting he'd be back in the library at lunchtime after this.

Jacob's eyes tracked him as he crossed the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you Google "Aubrey Shaw," you'll find articles on a man from Alabama who stabbed his great aunt and uncle to death. Freddy's old friend Aubrey Shaw, however, is a fellow police constable and character in Assassin's Creed: Underworld. He's definitely not the murdering type.


	3. Right On / Ride On

Freddy's first thought when he woke up early Sunday morning was  _ it's tutoring day  _ followed by a giddy flip of his stomach. Despite the…intimate nature of their texts, Freddy and Jacob hadn't spoken or been in close quarters since the last time he was at the Frye residence. 

Freddy was a pretty early riser (for a teenager at least), but today his eyes snapped open before the sun was even up, and once he'd thought of Jacob he couldn't get back to sleep. So he pulled on some running clothes and a hoodie and padded down the stairs, rubber of his shoes quiet on the carpet. After doing some stretches, Freddy left the house for a run.

He'd thought about it a little (a lot) since Jacob had hotly suggested a "study break" during their first session. What if Evie hadn't tried to save him from Jacob's attention…and what if Freddy had said yes? There was a difference between trying to fluster Freddy and making an outright offer to head upstairs. Right? Maybe Jacob would have laid off once they got to his bedroom, his goal of getting out of doing homework met. But maybe not. Maybe he would have pushed Freddy down on his bed and…you know. 

Freddy had expected to finish high school a kissless virgin. And with the full knowledge that virginity is a social construct and that there is nothing wrong with  _ not _ being sexually active, he still wouldn't mind changing that status sooner rather than later. And Jacob Frye could be his ticket. Freddy would tutor him in calc, and Jacob would tutor him in fucking.

Just thinking about it made Freddy squirm. Part of him—probably the part drowning in hormones but also the part with  _ eyes _ —wanted to relax and see what happened. But another part of him, the logical part, could sense that Jacob Frye was bad news. Bad, sexy, bad news. That part of him thought Freddy should stay away.

He finished his run, another tour of his new neighborhood where all the houses looked exactly the same and the sidewalks were remarkably inconsistent, and re-entered the house. The sun was up now but the house was still dark, so Freddy stripped out of his layers while he climbed the stairs for a shower.

He fussed with his hair and clothes more than usual, adding and removing and swapping layers in a stupid attempt to stop looking like a buttoned-up nerd while also not looking like he was deliberately trying something different. Freddy walked small circles around his bedroom, glancing at himself in the mirror every time he passed it. He'd managed to kill a lot of time doing this, and when it was nearly 11:00 he went downstairs to help his dad make brunch.

Breakfast food in a breakfast-adjacent timeslot was an unspoken Sunday tradition at the Abberline home, one born after he and his dad had stopped going church a couple of years before. Every week his dad threw on an apron (which looked acutely ridiculous, what with Edward Abberline being a bearded, barrel-chested police captain and the apron being a small, frilly thing leftover from the divorce) and he cooked himself and his son a heartier meal than either of them had time to eat all week. 

"Thanks for cleaning house yesterday," his dad said in lieu of good morning. "It looks nice in here."

"You're welcome," Freddy replied, grabbing plates and flatware and setting a couple of glasses in the freezer to chill. Another unspoken thing in the Abberline home was shared housework. Between school and sports and homework, Freddy should have had the busier schedule. But his dad got calls from the station at all hours, and often went in himself instead of delegating work to his subordinates. So Freddy picked up the slack around home—cooking, cleaning, doing laundry. Because if he didn't do it, things would devolve into "gross bachelor pad" pretty quickly.

They sat at the table for brunch, the only sounds in the room coming from the TV: football pregame coverage. Freddy and his dad didn't have a bad relationship by any stretch. They just had a quiet one.

Freddy's phone vibrated on top of the buffet that lined the wall. He'd left the phone there, as he was instructed to do, because he wasn't meant to bring "distractions" to the table. (Of course, the game on TV didn't count. The only disruptive technology was the kind used by generations that came after his dad's.)

The phone buzzed again. Freddy stopped chewing and looked over at it.

"Fred…" his dad cautioned.

Freddy fidgeted, stammered, "I think—" The phone vibrated a third time. "I'm sorry, it's probably about tutoring, I've gotta—" He didn't finish his sentence, instead pushing his chair out and speeding over to the buffet to unlock his phone.

**Jacob** ****  
i have an errand to run in the city, want to come with me?   
we can do calc stuff at a coffee shop or something afterward   
what do you think

Freddy grinned.

"Tutoring stuff, huh?" Freddy's dad said. His expression was neutral, but his voice suggested a smile. "Must be a cute student, whoever she is."

That put a dent in his grin. Hopefully his dad read that as embarrassment at being caught smiling and not the guilt over an overdue correction on Freddy's romantic preferences.

**Freddy** **  
** Works for me. How are we getting there?

**Jacob** **  
** i'll drive. text me your address.

**Freddy  
** 225 Tate Street   
When should I expect you?

**Jacob  
** leaving now

Their tutoring session wasn't meant to start for an hour and a half. 

"Shit." 

Freddy pocketed his phone and grabbed his plate, walking it back toward the kitchen. "Tutoring session got moved up!" he explained as he went, shoving sausages in his mouth, throwing back orange juice.

He ran up the stairs to brush his teeth, flatten his hair, frown at a new pimple. He'd hoped to have time to masturbate beforehand on the off chance that would relax him for like thirty minutes, but he wasn't in the mood for rushing it.

Freddy picked through his bookbag, throwing anything he wouldn't need on the bed. No sooner had he chosen a pair of shoes did his phone vibrate again, Jacob saying "out front."

Freddy rushed down the stairs, pulling on his jacket and scarf. 

"What time will you be back?" his dad called. 

"Uh—" depended on how long Jacob's errand was, he supposed. "Before dinner, I think? I'll text." Freddy was trying to tie his shoe while standing up, but it made him overbalance and land hard on the bench in the entryway. 

"Well, good luck out there," his dad said, sounding like he was smiling again.

Freddy laughed, nervous. Yeah, he might need some luck.

He opened the front door and walked down the sidewalk at a normalized pace that hopefully didn't suggest he'd just been bolting around his house like there was a fire. Jacob bent his head to look at Freddy from inside a silver car on the curb, peering at him through a pair of round brown-tinted sunglasses. Freddy heard the doors unlock.

" _ Freddy _ ," Jacob cooed by way of greeting. "Thanks for being flexible."

"Sure," Freddy said, sliding his bag off his shoulder and onto the floor before buckling his seatbelt. This was a nice car—leather seats, metallic touches. "Is this your car?"

"Mine and Evie's," Jacob said, sounding disgruntled. "It's mostly Evie's seeing how she's always taking it to go to violin practice and gymnastics and Key Club and all the other shit she fills her day with." He shifted the car into drive and made a U-turn out of his parking space. "My friend Agnes is helping me fix up my granddad's old Honda N600, but saving for the parts is murder, even with the discount from her family's salvage yard." 

Freddy would Google "Honda N600" later, expecting a humiliatingly macho muscle car but delighted to find a little vintage economy car instead. 

"You're handy with cars?" Freddy asked, settling in and pushing up his glasses.

Jacob scoffed. "No, not at all. When I say 'Agnes is helping me' I mean 'Agnes is doing all of it on her own.' She keeps trying to teach me stuff though, which is very annoying." 

Freddy smiled the grim smile of a tutor who had his work cut out for him. "So, what's your errand?" he asked.

"Oh, I need to get a tattoo," Jacob replied, casual.

Freddy looked around at Jacob, hoping that his expression would indicate a joke. Not so. Jacob's eyes stayed on the road. He had an elbow against the car window, his fingers toying idly with the little pony his hair was half pulled into.

"And you decided that today?" Freddy asked, slow, like Jacob might not know what he was saying. "I'm fairly certain this is the reason the show  _ Tattoo Nightmares  _ exists."

"Don't worry,  _ dad _ , I didn't decide today," Jacob retorted, shaking his head. "The shop I wanted to go to has an annual Sailor Jerry celebration where they tattoo a bunch of people for a hundred bucks a pop, which is about all I can afford. It's supposed to be in January, but they're closing their doors, so the party got bumped up."

"They're closing their doors?" Freddy repeated, a million unsavory reasons for it coming to mind. "Why?"

Jacob shrugged. "Unsanitary equipment probably." He turned to flash a smile at Freddy, who could see his own unamused expression reflected in Jacob's sunglasses. "I don't know, Freddy, they just are. Relax, it's not like I'm asking you to get a tattoo. …Though I might ask you to hold my hand if it hurts," he finished, smirking anew.

Freddy would absolutely be down for that. He'd also kiss the tattoo better, if Jacob requested it. Put lotion on it—whatever you do with tattoos. He didn't say this, though. Instead he replied, "Handholding kind of conflicts with your toughie persona, doesn't it?"

"Toughie? I'm touched," Jacob said. The operative word in Freddy's sentence had actually been "persona," but he let it slide. "Either way, I'm a big fan of tender loving care, especially when it comes from someone so cute." 

Jacob reached over and pinched Freddy's cheek none too tenderly, making Freddy groan and lean away, even while marking the phrase "someone so cute" for closer examination later. 

The drive to the city still felt like driving home to Freddy. As the downtown skyline came into view, a feeling of relief settled over him—it was like finding something valuable right where he'd left it. Instead of clamming up as the lanes multiplied and more and more cars joined theirs on the road, Freddy felt secure. Simultaneously familiar and anonymous, like he belonged but could blend in.

The GPS on Jacob's phone indicated their exit was coming up. A minute later they were in a southside neighborhood, one that was half mom-and-pop shops and half empty storefronts. The phone announced "you have arrived" and Jacob turned them down a side street, parking in front of some houses divided into duplexes.

The tattoo shop was called Bloody Nora's (Freddy threw Jacob a sideways glance) and it did not have the look of a place about to shut down. The walls were painted blazing bright colors and covered with evenly-spaced artwork. The entryway was packed with people, the noise of their chatter mixing with the mellow music playing over speakers in the ceiling. 

Jacob pushed through the crowd, Freddy following close in the space Jacob opened behind him.

They got to the counter and the woman behind it, in her 30s with a lot of facial piercings and a bowler hat sitting far back on her bleach blonde hair, smiled mildly. "Here for Sailor Jerry tattoos?" she asked, looking between them.

"Yeah, I am," Jacob said, stepping forward.

"All right—we have a pretty big line, but between our tattooists and the guest artists they're making good time. I'll need you to fill this out for me," she said, pushing Jacob a clipboard with a form on it. "And I'll need to see your ID."

Jacob passed her his driver's license and reached for the form. Before he could get there, though, the woman slapped her hand down on the clipboard.

"Nope," she said, pulling the form back toward her, eyes on the driver's license. "This is a fake."

"No, it's not," Jacob said, disgruntled like he was about to ask to see a manager, leaning forward like he might examine and verify the ID himself.

"Yes, it is," she replied, matching his cadence. She pulled a flashlight from under the counter and shone it through the driver's license, looking close. "It's a good fake, I'll give you that, but it's a fake."

Freddy glanced around to see if anyone was listening, embarrassment creeping in.

"Sorry, kid," the woman said. "No tattoos for under-eighteens." She held the fake ID out to Jacob—nice of her to return it, Freddy supposed—and motioned for the next people in line to step forward. 

Jacob didn't budge. Instead, he reached forward and traced his fingertips along the woman's extended wrist and up her inner arm. "Please," Jacob said, voice going low. "I'm real close to eighteen. Is there nothing I can do to change your mind?" He cocked his head to the side, hitting her with his brightest, most evocative grin.

"No," she replied, unaffected. "For a few reasons, including the fact that you're a baby and I'm a gay." She forcibly put the ID in Jacob's palm and he hung his head, groaning.

Freddy's eyes passed between Jacob and the woman at the counter, then he took a step forward. "Look," Freddy said, soft, "we're sorry for trying to trick you. It's just—he's been talking about this forever, and saving up cash even longer than that. He'll be eighteen by the time the party was meant to happen, but that's null now."

Jacob's eyebrows were inching higher and higher on his forehead, but when Freddy threw him a look that said  _ cooperate  _ Jacob got his expression under control.

"Please. Help us out," Freddy continued, leaning a little against the counter. "Besides, with the shop closing—who's gonna know? Except for a couple of almost-eighteens who will owe you a favor?"

Freddy crossed the fingers on one hand and held his breath. A moment passed as Freddy looked at the tattoo shop worker, she looked at him, and Jacob looked back and forth between them both. When the woman behind the counter emitted a little sigh, Freddy knew he'd clinched the deal.

The woman slid the clipboard back toward Jacob, a little rough. "Fill out this form and bring it up when your number—" she indicated a number on the corner of the page, "—is called. Catalogs are circulating with your tattoo options. It's Sailor Jerry's 105th birthday, so you owe me $105 and tax, which comes out to $112.22. You'll still need to tip your artist. Got it?"

"Yes!" Jacob blurted, flipping through his wallet and working his thumb frantically against a bank card that was stuck in its pocket. He thrust the card at her once he got it out and took the clipboard, almost rushing away without getting his card back and signing his receipt.

Jacob got his card, as well as a guide to caring for a new tattoo and a packet of some kind of ointment, and then he and Freddy walked back into the crowd of waiting customers. As they put some distance between themselves and the desk, Jacob threw an arm around Freddy's neck, pulling him in close to rumble, "Oh my god, Freddy, you brilliant fibber." They kept walking down the hallway, Jacob pausing between each word to press a hard, sloppy kiss to the side of Freddy's face—on his cheek, against his glasses, in his hair. "How. Did. You. Do. That?"

Blushing furiously, so hot he thought his glasses might fog, Freddy said, "You catch more flies with honey than with—weird, aggressive flirting." He made his point by pushing Jacob away, loathe as he was to do it, eight or so kisses to the face later.

They found a spot on a bench and sat, thigh to thigh, Freddy feeling hot under the collar—which before now he thought was just a saying. He pulled off his scarf and took the tattoo catalog a woman nearby was holding out to them, giving Freddy a look of endearment. Or maybe it was a look of pity.

Tattoos in the style of Sailor Jerry, it turned out, were the image that sprang to mind when you thought "tattoo." Thick lines and warm colors in the shapes of pinup girls, nautical stars, and curling ribbons with MOM written on them. They were beautiful, and Freddy was holding a pretty thick book of them.

"What should I get?" Jacob asked, tapping his finger on the catalog in Freddy's hands before going to work on the form the woman behind the counter gave him. He was checking boxes on the form way too fast to actually be reading what it said beside them.

"You don't know what you want?"

"I have an idea," Jacob replied, smiling close. "But I want to know what you think."

Freddy flipped the book open and looked through the bold designs inside—panthers, skulls, roses, 8-balls. Each of them had a number next to it, probably for Jacob to put on the form.

"Where are you getting it? The tattoo," Freddy asked. 

"Well, initially I thought tramp stamp was the obvious way to go." Freddy rolled his eyes. Jacob didn't see it. "But after looking inward and realizing my ass didn't need additional attention, I'm gonna get it right here." Jacob put a hand high on his chest, right where chest met shoulder met armpit.  

"Because your chest needs additional attention?" Freddy inferred. 

Jacob made a dismissive motion. "Stop—memorizing the things I say and look at the damn book."

Freddy did as he was told, spending time on each page, fingers tracing the line work. 

"I like this sailor girl," Freddy told him, flipping back to the page with the profile of a woman in a sailor hat. "The bomb," he showed that one to Jacob, a round air drop bomb falling over a yellow heart. "And the bird. This bird." There were a lot of birds in this book—eagles and gulls and a funny anthropomorphized one with boxing gloves—but Freddy liked one that was red-bellied with black and yellow wings, dipping down.

"It's a swallow," Jacob said. He filled the bird's number in on his form, adding, "I like that one too." He bumped his shoulder against Freddy's. 

They had to wait a while, watching people in varying states of tattooed-and-pierced come and go, Hawaiian music drifting over them. When Jacob's number was called, it was by a woman with artificially darkened hair whose choker was the only part of her décolletage that wasn't tattoos. 

"I'm Nellie," she said.  She took the clipboard from Jacob and read, "You're Jacob. And you checked all the boxes. Good. Follow me to my station."

Unlike the shop on the whole, Nellie's workspace did look like it was about to be moved out of. There was a stack of boxes on top of her cabinet and faded outlines on the wall where art and paper clippings had been.

"You want the tattoo on your chest," she read from the form. "All right, shirt off, show me where."

Jacob peeled off his top layers. Shockingly, he didn't take the time to toss Freddy a saucy wink while doing so. Jacob just watched Nellie, looking a little shifty now that he was within minutes of going under the needle.

This gave Freddy a good opportunity to look him up and down and find that Jacob was, as usual, frustratingly magnificent. He may not play sports anymore, but Jacob was all pecs and biceps, flat stomach and sharp hipbones. Dark hair spread across his chest and ran in a straight line down his belly, disappearing into his waistband. Freddy had seen many a happy trail, but none that he wanted to follow as much as Jacob's, nosing and kissing his way down and down and down as Jacob writhed and rolled beneath him.

Freddy sat in the chair against the wall, taking off his jacket and laying it in his lap.  _ Now why'd you have to go and think about that,  _ he chastised himself, trying to look innocent, not realizing it was about to get worse.

Jacob was showing Nellie with his fingers where he wanted the tattoo to go. Nellie nodded along, saying, "Good, you don't have much hair just there so we won't even have to shave you. Efficient! You can sit down."

Nellie went to work, adjusting Jacob's chair so he was lying almost flat, putting on gloves, cleaning and transferring an image to Jacob's chest, setting out ink cups. It was over in a second, and Nellie rolled her chair up to Jacob, gun in hand. 

"If you need me to stop or if you're feeling woozy—anything out of the ordinary—let me know and we'll take a break. Okay?" Jacob nodded. "You ready?" Jacob nodded again.

Nellie fired up her tattoo gun, adding it to the chorus of other buzzing guns around the shop, and touched it to Jacob's skin. He grimaced.

After a minute Freddy asked, "Need my handholding services?" nervous, joking, but hoping for a yes.

Jacob turned his face to look at Freddy, resting his cheek on the pad of the chair. He shook his head, smiling a little. Jacob's eyes slipped shut and Freddy studied him openly, watched his eyebrows and lips twitch, a slight flush rising on his cheeks as Nellie worked.

"How are you doing, Jacob?" Nellie asked after a few minutes. "Not too much pain?"

Jacob cleared his throat, eyes still shut. "Uh, nope. Nope it's—fine."

"Ah," Nellie said, chuckling knowingly. "You are my favorite type of customer."

Jacob's shut his eyes tighter, nose scrunching, as he asked, "What type is that?"

Pausing to dip her tattoo needle in ink, Nellie replied, "The 'hurts so good' type."

Jacob's eyes opened, wide pupils fixed on Freddy. It became rapidly clear that Freddy had misread Jacob's expressions. Jacob wasn't going all pink and worrying his lips because he was in pain—of course not. He was getting turned on by this.

The reality of the situation made Freddy's blood rush. Here was Jacob, all naughty texts and wandering hands, being given a taste of his own medicine, the uncalled for arousal. And he was gorgeous: eyes glassy, flush spreading down his chest. And, to Freddy's surprise, he looked a little ashamed. 

"Sorry," Jacob said, to Freddy or to Nellie, who knew.

"It's all right, honey. It's more common than you think," Nellie replied, nonplussed. "I used to be a stripper besides—so erections on the job are pretty mundane."

Jacob huffed a laugh, closing his eyes again. Freddy watched Jacob's stomach rising and falling, his grip going white knuckled on the edge of the tattoo chair. Jesus, Freddy wanted to touch him. He wanted to strip him bare and, if Jacob liked when it hurt, Freddy could make it hurt—he'd pull his hair, bite his neck, leave scratches and bruises for Jacob to press his fingers against when Freddy was gone, to feel the jolt of pain and to remember.

Voice high, Freddy blurted, "I'm gonna step out for a bit." He stood, trying to find a way to hold his jacket that looked natural and not like he was camouflaging a hard-on. He cleared his throat. "Yeah."

As Freddy started for the door, Jacob offered, "You can take the car keys from my jacket if you want?"

"I'm good," Freddy called back, walking a little faster. He wove through the people filling the shop until he was outside, letting the chilly October air sink in. He walked up the sidewalk then down the side street where Jacob's car was parked. There was no one around, so he pulled on his coat and scarf and adjusted himself in his pants, relieving some pressure. 

Freddy propped himself up on the hood of Jacob's car and pulled out his phone, planning to divert his attention with some match-three game or another. He stayed like that for a while, erection wearing off and game pulling him in. Just when he was about to head back inside, to wait by the door at least if he didn't think he could watch Jacob shudder through his arousal some more without doing something brash, Freddy heard someone crunching through the leaves on the sidewalk.

"All done," Jacob said. He was walking with his hands in his pockets, sunglasses back on. 

"That was quick," Freddy said, and he meant it.

"Yeah." Jacob leaned against the hood of the car, watching Freddy over his shoulder. He cleared his throat and said, "So, calc time?"

They grabbed their bags and walked to a coffee shop a few blocks east of the tattoo parlour. It was a homey place—tattered booths and mismatched furniture, Christmas lights strung up all over the single room. 

Jacob was on his best behavior, not only working through his calc problems dutifully, hands to himself, but also insisting he buy Freddy's drinks. They wrapped their work in record time and sat finishing their second round of drinks: coffee for Jacob, cocoa for Freddy. 

"Are you pleased with how the tattoo turned out?" Freddy asked.

Jacob beamed. "It's so awesome," he said, the words coming out in a rush. "And bigger than I expected, which is cool. Do you want to see it?" 

Freddy nodded. Jacob unbuttoned his shirt to the middle of his chest and pulled his collar aside to expose a patched over section of skin. The tape lifted easily and underneath—a swallow, bold and bright and a nice complement to a nice chest. Freddy pushed up his glasses and looked closer. The skin around and beneath the design was a little red and puffy, and from what little Freddy knew about tattoos, would get worse before it got better.

"Hmm?" Jacob prodded. 

"I like it," Freddy said, and it was the truth. He'd assisted in a little teenage rebellion today, and it felt pretty good. "You make me want to get a tattoo."

"Because they're dope as hell?" Jacob filled in.

"That," Freddy admitted, cocking his head to the side, "and you look like you  _ really  _ enjoyed getting it."

Jacob smiled, looking down as he re-adhered the patch to his skin. "Shut up, Freddy," he murmured, buttoning his shirt. Freddy hid a smile behind his cup.

They walked back to the car, and once they crawled in Jacob quickly started the engine and turned the heat way up to combat the cold wind that had started outside. They began tracing their path back toward New Greenwich, away from the lights and buzz of the city, sitting in companionable silence and dry heat that made Freddy a little sleepy. Maybe he should've gone for coffee instead.

"Freddy, are you humming?"

Freddy snapped to, lifting his head from the window where he'd been idly watching the tail lights of cars as Jacob sped past them.

The radio was playing the Pointer Sisters, a song Freddy had downloaded after watching Love Actually for the first time. The song had been transferred from MP3 player to MP3 player, phone to phone, one of the only tracks left over after changes in tastes and lost iTunes passwords. Freddy had a lot of shit on his phone he'd rather people didn't see, and "Jump (For My Love)" was probably at the top.

"What is this nonsense?" Jacob asked, pointing at the radio. He felt around for his phone and unlocked it, but Freddy grabbed it from his hands.

Jacob looked over at him, obviously reveling in how the spotlight of embarrassment was shifting. Freddy, meanwhile, felt his position of power slipping away. He suspected it was going to be business as usual the next time he saw Jacob: dick jokes and unnecessary touches. 

"Don't—don't Shazam and drive," Freddy said, pocketing Jacob's phone.

Jacob smiled and turned the radio up, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel with the beat.


	4. Mind, Drips

Cecily answered the door during Freddy's next Wednesday tutoring session, beaming. "Frederick," she chimed. "Come in. Are you having a nice week?"

"I am. Thank you, Mrs. Frye." He crossed the threshold into the house, toeing off his shoes once he was inside. He'd noticed the first time he was there that the Fryes were a shoes-off family, though wearing shoes in their home was easily the  _ least  _ uncomfortable thing that had happened to him while he was there. 

"Jacob's upstairs," Cecily said, tilting her head toward the staircase near the entryway before leading him up.

Cecily stopped on the first landing, leaning to look up the next set of stairs. "Jacob!" she called. "Frederick's here." 

Nothing. 

"Jacob?"

Still nothing. Cecily shook her head and, turning to Freddy, said, "He's got the attic. You can let yourself in. Want anything to drink?" 

"I'll be fine. Thanks, Mrs. Frye."

Cecily sighed and patted him on the arm, looking at him like he'd just given a wrong answer. She started making her way downstairs, but stopped halfway to add, "Oh, and definitely knock before going in. There's about a fifty percent chance he's masturbating in there."

Cecily disappeared from view, apparently unconcerned by Frederick's sudden and violent coughing fit. 

Freddy recovered and climbed to the top level. He knocked on the closed door at the top of the stairs and said, "Jacob?" No answer. He put his ear to the door. He could hear movement inside. 

_What if he_ ** _is_** _masturbating?_ Freddy's heart skipped a beat. He pictured Jacob on a bed, back arching, one hand slowly stroking up his cock, the other wrapped around a bar on his headboard. He'd look up when Freddy opened the door, and with his naughtiest grin ask, _"You gonna watch or you gonna join in?"_  

Freddy shook the image from his mind and knocked on the door again. "Jacob, I'm coming in."

He tried to ease the door open but then found he could  _ only  _ ease it open—something against the door was catching on the carpet, making it hard to move. Freddy pushed a little harder until he could fit his head through the gap in the door.

Jacob was sitting on the edge of a mattress in the middle of the floor, wide-eyed with shock. He wasn't jerking off—fortunately or unfortunately, Freddy didn't know—but he did have one hand behind his back like he was hiding something. Once he saw Freddy, Jacob sighed, and smoke poured out of his mouth.

"Freddy," he said, sliding a pair of bulky headphones off the crown of his head to rest around his neck. "Shit, you scared me. Come in; close the door." Freddy did as he was told, nudging the towel back into place. 

Jacob's room was the kind of space Freddy had dreamed of having as a kid. Still did, truth be told. The pale wood-paneled walls on either side of the door were slanted into a point, big windows pointing up at the sunny October sky. The back and front walls were almost completely covered with posters and postcards, just a little bit of some old boyish wallpaper peeking through. There were low shelves all around that spilled over with books, boxes, records, plants, and souvenirs. The room wasn't dirty but it was so cluttered that it kind of gave that vibe.

Jacob patted the spot next to him on the bed. "How's it going?" he asked, revealing what he'd been hiding behind his back: a glass pipe and lighter. He put the pipe to his lips and held the lighter to the bowl, inhaling.

Jacob held his breath and he offered the pipe and lighter to Freddy. Freddy shook his head 'no,' telling himself to be cool and not act like weed was an unfamiliar drug that he'd been warned against his entire life. Jacob exhaled and said, "Yeah, I think it's cashed anyway. C'mon, sit." 

Freddy sat, not avoiding the cloud of smoke rising above Jacob but not breathing in as he passed through it either. He settled next to Jacob on the edge of the mattress and asked, "Do you think you can do calc while you're on pot?"

"'On pot,'" Jacob echoed, adding a low snicker. "Maybe. Doesn't matter though because I already finished my homework for Tuesday."

Freddy regarded him, wrinkling his brow. "When?" he asked, skeptical.

"Free period on Friday. My phone was dead and my friend was out sick, so." He pointed at his backpack, which was on Freddy's side of the bed. "Hand me that, will you?" 

Freddy dragged Jacob's backpack over and Jacob pulled out his gray and blue calc book. He flipped it open and presented a folded notebook page with a flourish. Freddy took it and saw it was covered with Jacob's handwriting, front and back.

"Huh," Freddy said. "I, uh. I guess I'll check your work."

"Knock yourself out." Jacob pulled his headphones from the turntable on the floor and the speakers came to life, playing something sad and shoegazey. "Do you mind?" he asked, pointing at the record.

Freddy shook his head, paging backward in Jacob's calc book for the beginning of the problem set. Jacob moved up the bed, spun 180 degrees, and laid on his back, head next to Freddy's thigh. Jacob closed his eyes and sighed.

Freddy walked through Jacob's assignment, tapping a pencil along the paper as he moved through each phase of each problem. Freddy didn't bother to pull out a calculator—he assumed that Jacob could do that part right—and instead focused on rooting out any incorrect equations or missed steps. He found a couple and circled them, lightly penciling in his recommendations in the margins.

He stuck the notebook page back in the book when he was done with it and sifted through his own bag to find Jacob's upcoming assignments. Jacob had nothing due again until Thursday, and Mrs. Platt wasn't even going to lecture on trigonometric functions until Tuesday. No point in trying to get ahead.

Freddy looked down at Jacob, at the low v-neck he wore that just crossed the line into "begging for attention," at the branching scar that bisected his eyebrow and made his irritatingly symmetrical face even more enticing. 

Of course, Jacob opened his eyes while Freddy was mid-ogle. "Like what you see?" he needled, smirking.

Freddy felt his face flush, and despite knowing that he turned fire engine red whenever this happened, he tried to act nonchalant. "Where'd you get the scar?" Freddy asked, touching his own eyebrow. 

Jacob mirrored the movement. "What, this one?" he said. "Was jumping up and down on a recliner when I was a kid. Crashed face first through a window."

Freddy winced. "Lucky you didn't lose an eye."

"No kidding. Imagine me in an eyepatch," Jacob replied, covering his eye with his hand. "The parade of soaked panties would never stop."

Jacob winked—or Freddy thought he did. He only had the one eye to do it with, so it was hard to be sure.

"Well, I'm done checking your work. I marked a couple of problems you need to revisit, but otherwise I think you're good to go. So—" Freddy started to get up but Jacob reached over and put a hand on his thigh, stilling him.

"You don't have to leave," he said. Jacob sat, facing him. "I mean, don't you want your volunteer hours?" 

"I guess." Freddy looked at Jacob's hand on his thigh and asked, "But what should we do?"

Freddy maybe, definitely hoped Jacob would take this as his cue to crawl on top of Freddy and ride him until there was nothing left. Instead he slid his hand from Freddy's thigh and shrugged, saying, "I don't mean to be a totally stereotypical teenage dirtbag but—wanna get high and listen to music?" He smiled, slow.

This was one of those fabled peer pressure tipping points where Freddy, according to the lessons of his cop father and old Sunday school teachers and a million or so PSAs, was meant to rise above. He was meant to say, "nah, I'm cool" which would simultaneously win Jacob's respect and make him consider changing his ways.

But he…didn't really want to. Freddy always figured he'd have to try it at least once, and he'd rather try it with just one other person in the room instead of at a college party with five pairs of eyes looking on.

Of course, he couldn't play it cool and outright say "yes" either. Instead Freddy looked around the room, like maybe someone was eavesdropping, and went, "Uhh."

Jacob cocked his head to the side. 

"It's not—it's not that I'm freaked out by the concept or use of weed," he said, which was only seventy-five percent untrue, "but last year in my performing arts class I was supposed to smoke a cigarette in a play and I couldn't do it. I choked every time."

"Well if that's the only problem, I'll just shotgun it to you," Jacob said, matter-of-fact, turning and dragging a shoebox from one of the shelves like Freddy had answered in the affirmative. He extracted a baggy of weed and an herb grinder and went to work.

Freddy's subconscious made a last-ditch effort at turning him the other way, dredging up a bunch of old slogans— _ live above the influence; high for a night, slow for a month; if you're using pot, you're not using your brain _ —as well as the clear image of an egg frying in a cast iron pan. But when Jacob turned back to him and said, "Ready? Follow my lead," that all went quiet. All that was left was the record playing softly, the leaves rustling in the strong wind outside, the flick-flick of the lighter, Jacob's long and slow inhale. 

Jacob crooked his finger and Freddy froze, not sure what to do. Jacob repeated the motion, urgent this time, and Freddy leaned forward a couple of inches. That's when Jacob closed the rest of the distance, knocking his forehead against Freddy's in haste as he blew a lungful of smoke in his face.

Freddy gasped in surprise, getting a mouthful of fumes and then coughing them out again. Shotgunning. Right. He'd seen this, even if he didn't know the name for it.

"Well it's not going to work if you spit it all back out right away," Jacob said. Freddy appreciated that Jacob gave him the benefit of a doubt and at least acted like Freddy had any idea what he was doing. "Let's try again. And make sure to get it in your lungs; don't just hold it in your mouth."

Jacob took another hit on his pipe then drew Freddy in by the chin, fingertips soft on his face. He exhaled slowly and Freddy inhaled in tandem, what smoke that escaped obscuring Jacob's face from view. Freddy held his breath for a few seconds—lungs hot with smoke, face hot with nerves—then exhaled, oddly surprised to see the fumes go with it. He coughed a little, but this wasn't nearly as bad as those cigarettes in performing arts, which made him feel like he was trying to breathe underwater.

"One more should probably do the trick, but we'll try two just to be sure," Jacob said, calm and quiet like he was worried Freddy would panic, which, fair.

Jacob repeated the process and Freddy followed his lead. Jacob was close, so close, his open mouth an inch from Freddy's, his dark eyes trained on Freddy's lips. Freddy's insides were twisting; his heart was beating so fast and so loud he was sure Jacob could hear it. He inhaled, held his breath, exhaled. 

One second Freddy was absently watching Jacob tamp the weed in his pipe with the corner of his lighter and the next he was—doing the exact same thing, only now in high definition. 

Jacob was so pretty. And he had such good skin. How did he have such good skin? It was a little rosy along his cheeks and nose, like maybe he'd been in the sun too long. But no, it was October. He just had good, luminescent skin. And that made Freddy happy.

"Last one," Jacob said. He held his lighter over the bowl of the pipe, sucking in, then leaned into Freddy's space again. Jacob breathed and Freddy breathed with him, eyes falling shut. This round seemed to go on forever, time slow, and Freddy tried to catalog the details—Jacob's nose touching his, Jacob's wrist touching Freddy's thigh where he leaned for balance. Freddy's hand moved of its own volition, fingers finding the nape of Jacob's neck and holding him in place as he drew the smoke into his lungs and held it there before expelling it all in a sated sigh.

Freddy opened his eyes and was met with Jacob's close-lipped smile, which was also luminescent, which also made Freddy happy. 

"How you doing?" Jacob asked. Freddy responded with a nod.

Jacob leaned over the edge of his mattress and pulled forward a milk crate full of records. His fingers skipped over the first few, then he pulled out a sleeve decorated in vibrant colors, red and pink and yellow. He removed the vinyl and flipped it cleverly in his hands, replacing the old one on the turntable.

He let the needle down, gentle, and while it made its way inward, Jacob made his way over to Freddy. "Here, lie back," Jacob said, moving up the bed. He pushed Freddy backward, and the place where he touched his shoulder seemed to light up, tingling. 

Freddy laid with his head on one of Jacob's pillows, watching through the windows as the clouds crossed the amber skies of late afternoon. Jacob lay next to him, quiet. 

Freddy thought he'd had an idea of what being stoned was like: he thought he'd feel stupid, or crazy, or maybe a little floaty (hence: high). Instead he just felt—present. The colors around him were richer. The pilly surface of Jacob's duvet prickled under his fingertips. The swirling patterns in the wood around the windows stood out and were really elegant, if you thought about it, the way they grew like that. 

He could also feel Jacob lying next to him, probably a little closer than Jacob's big bed called for. But for once it didn't make Freddy anxious or sweaty. It was manageable. He was grateful Jacob was there, that Jacob would almost-kiss Freddy without the express purpose of distracting him from tutoring, that Jacob would share his music with him. Whatever this music was.

Freddy knew he was hearing this particular music for the first time, but he also felt like he was  _ really  _ hearing it. He could pick out all the sounds individually, bass and treble and a lot of dreamy synth. Stoner music. Freddy chuckled.

"What is this?" Freddy asked. 

"Hmm?" Jacob turned his face toward Freddy, who made a vague motion in the direction of his record player. "Oh, Neon Indian," Jacob replied, and Freddy chuckled again. Dumb name. "This album is one of my favorites."

Freddy hummed. "Why?"

"II just have nice memories with it, I guess." Jacob turned his head, looking back at the ceiling. Freddy thought he might leave it there, but then: "I was visiting my dad—he's a professor at Oxford, but we were in London and thank god because Oxford is terrible—like really the most boring place in the world if you don't count where we are right now—and it was winter and rainy and it gets dark there at like 4:00 p.m. I know in winter here they say it gets dark at 4:00 p.m. but it doesn't, really. The sun sets later. Everyone knows that, they're just exaggerating. But in London it's really dark really early." Jacob paused, fluffing the pillow under his head. "What was I saying?"

Freddy thought about it for a few seconds. "Music."

"Oh, right. Basically, even though this album sounds like summer, listening to it makes me think of winter and of London. Getting pushed along with all the people in rush hour making their way to their Tube platforms. Walking around Shoreditch in the rain. Conning my way into Notting Hill Arts Club and this place called Heaven which—ha—which I'll tell you about when you're older and more ready for it."

Freddy was listening, to Jacob's story or just to Jacob's voice he wasn't sure. "I think," Freddy concluded, slow, "this is the best music I've ever heard."

Jacob laughed. "No," he disagreed, "you're just stoned." He sat up and tilted into Freddy's line of vision. Freddy sighed, smiled.  _ So pretty _ . "Speaking of, do you want anything to eat?"

Freddy gasped, remembering food, and moaned, " _ Yes _ ."

Jacob laughed again, giggled really, and said, "Come on. Come on, c'mon." He dragged Freddy up by the wrist, leaving the room, record playing them out. "I plan to feed you one of everything."

In the kitchen, things seemed less optimistic. Jacob stood in front of the mostly-empty fridge for what felt like ten minutes before closing it and opening the pantry, then standing there for a time. "One of everything" turned into a bag of multicolored mini marshmallows and a half-empty canister of fried onions, which they took with them into the living room.

Strangely enough, their makeshift snacks hit the spot.  _ Really  _ hit the spot, like Freddy realized he should have been eating fried onions straight out of the can all along—they were perfect on his tongue. Meanwhile Jacob was eating marshmallows by the handful, then force feeding Freddy marshmallows by the handful, then saying, "You play basketball, right? Throw these in my mouth."

Freddy sat at the opposite end of the couch, toe to toe with Jacob, tossing marshmallows at him in a high arc. Jacob kept trying to move to catch them, but whenever he tilted his head this way or that, he managed to move out of the path instead. He was casting suspicion on Freddy's basketball skills—"Seriously, Freddy, I have a huge mouth, this shouldn't be such a fucking problem for you"—and Freddy was cracking up, laughing and laughing at the marshmallows as they bounced off Jacob's cheeks, nose, chin. None of them made it in. Not a single one. Jacob was surrounded by dozens of mini marshmallows like a fresh pastel snow before he started picking them up and throwing them back, not even trying to make it in Freddy's mouth, just going straight for his glasses.   
  


* * *

  
Less than an hour later Jacob was asleep, passed out with his feet in Freddy's lap. Freddy was watching cartoons, which had gotten a tad less interesting now that the high had worn off. He watched Jacob some too, though less than one might have assumed. It turned out that Jacob was a remarkably ugly sleeper—he was snoring lightly, drool coming from the corner of his mouth. It was endearing, Freddy supposed, but mostly gross.

Freddy heard the door open and the rustle of grocery bags. He slid out from under Jacob's feet and wandered down the hallway, intercepting Cecily near the door and offering his help. 

Cecily rolled her eyes like Freddy had told a bad joke, but held out the bags she was carrying and doubled back to the car to get the rest. He walked back to the kitchen and plopped the groceries on the island, and Cecily joined him in a moment with another armful of food. Freddy started unloading bags. 

"Freddy, why're you—" Cecily paused mid-question and pivoted. "Where is my son?"

"Asleep on the couch," Freddy explained, flatting the empty bags. "He sort of—dropped off really suddenly."

Cecily nodded, raising an eyebrow. "Doesn't surprise me. He was out all night with Max, and I made him get up and go to school this morning like the monstrous mom I am." 

"Momstrous," Freddy offered. Cecily indulged him with a laugh. He wondered which friend Max was—Shorty or Floppy—and what they possibly could have been doing all night on a Tuesday. 

"How is tutoring going?" she said, offloading a few cans in the pantry. "Jacob's not giving you too much trouble is he?" 

"No, no it's fine." Cecily shut the pantry door, pinning Freddy with a skeptical look. "Really," he insisted.

"Well, even if it's a lie, I suppose glad to hear it," she said, sorting through bags of produce. "In the very least I hope you can get the volunteer hours you need. Have you started looking at colleges?" 

"Yes. State schools mostly," Freddy answered. Freddy was smart and Freddy was sporty, but he wasn't good enough in either area to get the scholarships necessary to go anywhere _but_ an in-state public school. And even then, the amount of debt he'll accrue…he tried not to think about it.  

"Studying math?" Cecily assumed.

"Ah, no. I mean, maybe. I don't know yet." Freddy was a calculator-assisted math whiz, and rumor had it college-level math classes didn't look kindly on people who had basically forgotten how to do long division by hand. "My dad wants me to go into police work, but…"

"Not for you?"

He shrugged. "It's not  _ not  _ for me." Cecily chuckled, nodding. "Have you been doing college stuff with Evie and Jacob?"

"I have. Evie's got her eye on a few Ivy League schools, but I have a feeling she'll end up at Oxford with her dad. Jacob hasn't shown any interest in college so far, which is fine." Freddy felt a small, illogical thrill at this. Hearing that Jacob wasn't about to vanish for a school on one of the coasts warmed him. "As long as he stays in high school and out of jail, that's a success in my book. Ethan disapproves enough for the both of us, but only because he doesn't remember what  _ he _ was like at seventeen." 

Cecily snapped to, looking around at Freddy like she'd forgotten he was there. "Why am I telling you all of this?"

Freddy gave her a weak smile. "I've been told I have 'one of those faces.'" 

Cecily wagged a knowing finger at him before ducking behind the fridge door, depositing some produce inside. "Maybe your dad's right. You should go into police work. You'd be good at getting confessions."

"Maybe so." 

"Well, if Jacob's napping you don't have to wait around. I'll sign off on your full volunteer hours either way. But if you want to stay for dinner, you're more than welcome." Cecily laid both hands on the counter and cocked her head to the side. She looked so much like Evie, but the gesture was pure Jacob.

"No, it's fine, I'm just waiting for my dad to pick me up." Freddy fished his phone out of his pocket and checked his messages. And of course his dad had texted in the interim that he would be at the station a little late, asking if Freddy would be ok taking the bus home. "Uh—or he's working late and I'll be taking the bus."

"Well it's settled, then. Dinner with the Fryes, then someone will drive you home. And since I imagine you won't go sit on the sofa and wait to be fed like a normal teenager…" Cecily dug around in a drawer and extracted a vegetable peeler. "How are you with a peeler?"

Freddy scratched his head and held out the other hand. "An old pro," he said. 


	5. Hey Mama

Freddy got to see Jacob a day early: they'd rescheduled their Sunday tutoring session for Saturday to make room for a preseason basketball Q&A that was taking place during their usual tutoring time, Sunday afternoon. Parents were supposed to go to those, but with his dad's unpredictable schedule, Freddy wanted to be sure he was available just in case.

Technically he could have just canceled on Jacob if he needed to, but the thought of doing that made his heart sink. Aside from group discussions in class and the sporadic uncomfortable lunch with Starrick and his cronies, Freddy's social contact was pretty limited. So he needed this. He was just a normal guy driven by basic social needs (and not an all-consuming lust for his dark-haired, deep-voiced tutee).

He could hear music blasting inside the Frye house when he walked up the sidewalk, so he wasn't too surprised when no one answered the door at his knock. Freddy let himself in, putting away his coat and shoes in their now-familiar places just before the first few bars of that one Nicki Minaj song he recognized but couldn't name rang through the air. 

He held off from humming along, assuming Jacob would be around the corner ready to make fun of him (again) if he did. Freddy shouldn't have been worried, though. Because what he saw when he got in range of the living room put him in the clear and then some.

Side-by-side with a small girl whose hair was divided into two long plaits, Jacob strutted back and forth in front of the TV, moving in sync with a digitized dancer on screen. Freddy walked closer, his brain short circuiting and his feet taking control while Jacob, hand on his hip, made the transition into a kind of modified, complicated "sprinkler"—arm out, leg kicking, not missing a beat (and the girl, to her credit, didn't miss a beat either).

Freddy stopped behind the couch, slipped a thumb beneath the strap of his messenger bag, and waited. He didn't want to trip them up, so he stayed silent and still while Jacob and the girl shook their shoulders and knocked their fists on the air, Jacob dragging his fingers down the back of his head in time.

There were male dancers on screen whose moves were less sultry—and less complicated—but Jacob was following along with the female lead. The contrast of masculine Jacob (all broad shoulders and square, stubbled jaw) with the feminine dance (all rolling abdomen and swinging hips) gave Freddy a familiar sort of whiplash: a moment of gender confusion followed by a firm feeling of _hell yes_.

The song hit the bridge and Jacob stuck his arm straight out, wrist snapping as he did a half turn. That's when he spotted Freddy. Jacob jumped, and the phone he was using to score his moves went tumbling out of his hand and onto the floor.

"Hey," Freddy said, natural. 

Jacob started going pink. He covered his mouth with one hand like he could hide the flush creeping up his cheeks. For a moment, Freddy understood how Jacob got off on causing others discomfort. Freddy felt buoyant—powerful, even. He should catch Jacob doing embarrassing stuff more often. (Except it wasn't embarrassing, or wouldn't be if Jacob hadn't constructed a reputation of being a deadbeat who was disinterested in what other high school plebs did for fun.)

For her part, the girl kept dancing, paying Jacob no mind. She did, however, take a second to look over her shoulder at Freddy and call out "Hi!" 

"You're not supposed to be here," Jacob said, a look of bewilderment peeking through his chagrin as he grabbed the remote and turned the TV down. "It's Saturday."

"We rescheduled," Freddy reminded him.

"That was for next week."

"This week," Freddy returned, flicking a finger downward. "We put a reminder on your phone and everything."

Jacob ran his fingers through his hair, blowing out a sigh. "Right. Well, I have Clara for the afternoon," he said, jerking his thumb toward the girl. "Think we can multitask? We've kind of got an…itinerary."

Clara paused the game and clung to Jacob's arm, looking Freddy over. "We're going to get makeovers at the mall," she explained. "Then we're going to make cookies, and then we're going to watch _Frozen_. It's our favorite movie." 

"It's _your_ favorite movie," Jacob corrected, maybe too quickly. "And Clara, since my friend Freddy is here, would you mind if we wait and go to the mall next time?"

Clara's mouth fell open. "What?! You said—"

Jacob cut her off with a stern, almost parental, " _Clara_." The girl went silent, detaching herself from Jacob and crossing her arms. "We'll do manicures today instead. Mall next time, I promise."

Clara followed Jacob and Freddy into the dining room table. Twenty minutes later, Jacob was blowing on the nails of his right hand while Clara applied her signature, remarkably sloppy nail art to his left. Freddy sat next to Jacob, explaining non-differentiable functions with help from some notes.

"Okay, my turn," Clara said, picking through the little box of nail polishes that Jacob would neither confirm nor deny belonged to him. She set out a bottle of green and a bottle of white then laid her hands flat on the table.

"Clara, I'm going to do some homework now," Jacob said, tapping a fingertip to the polish on his right hand to test how dry it was. "Freddy will do your nails, though. Won't you, Freddy?"

Clara moved one chair to the right so she was in front of Freddy, propped up on her shins. Freddy cleared his throat and grabbed the green polish. Shaking it, he asked, "Ok, Clara, what do you want?"

"Ombre, please."

"Go easy on him, Clara," Jacob scolded. He smiled at Freddy out of the corner of his eye and added, "He's new."

Clara rolled her eyes. "Fine. Stripes."

Stripes also sounded difficult, especially looking at how small Clara's nails were. But Freddy nodded. He could try it.

Considering how it looked like Jacob's fingers had been dipped in paint up to the knuckle after Clara's manicure, Clara sure was hard on Freddy. "You have to do two coats!" "You need to do the tips!" "The stripes are crooked!" An eternity of unsteadily dragging the brush along Clara's little nails later, they were finished, and Freddy thought he'd done an all right job. Clara disappeared from sight, lying down across the dining room chairs. Freddy could hear her blowing on her nails. 

He turned back to Jacob and calculus, but it wasn't long before Clara swung back into a sitting position and announced, "I'm _bored._ "

"Yeah join the club," Jacob said from the side of his mouth.  

"Clara," Freddy said, polite smile flickering. "How about we make those cookies?"

"Taking initiative," Jacob commented. He dipped into Freddy's line of sight and leered. "I like that in a man."

"You know, the more you flirt, the less effective it becomes," Freddy lied. He pushed his chair back and started for the kitchen. "C'mon, Clara."  

Freddy opened the pantry he'd watched Cecily unload groceries into earlier in the week and looked at his options. "Do you usually follow a recipe, or…?"

"No," Clara said lightly. She used a step stool to get up on the counter.

"OK," Freddy said. "All right." He slid his phone from his pocket, opened a browser, and started adding all the baking ingredients to the search bar, plus the word "recipe." Then, because he'd already surmounted enough today, he added the word "easy."

"Clara, do you like peanut butter cookies?" he asked, eyes passing between the recipe on his phone and the food in the pantry.

Kicking her feet against the drawers, Clara said, "Maybe."

"That's good enough for me. Can you find a big bowl and a wooden spoon and some—other baking shit? _Stuff_ , I mean. Stuff. Sorry." Freddy started pulling things from the shelf: sugar, flour, baking powder, peanut butter.

"It's OK, Jacob taught me all the swears," Clara told him, hopping off the counter and going straight for a cupboard that had the supplies he'd asked for. "Shit and ass and bull hockey."

"Sounds like Jacob's a _great_ babysitter." Freddy glanced in Jacob's direction, but he didn't appear to hear them. He was spinning his calculator on the table with one hand, tapping his pencil against his book with the other.

"He taught me that when we were hanging out," Clara clarified. "Jacob babysits me sometimes, but sometimes we just hang out because we're friends. He's not my best friend, though. That's Artie." Freddy went into the fridge for butter and sugar, and when he closed it Clara continued her monologue. "My dad wants Evie to watch me instead, but my mom says that Jacob's a good boy and people just don't give him enough chances, but my dad says that she only thinks that because Jacob's cute."

 _Happens to the best of us_ , Freddy thought, turning the oven on. "Let's wash our hands. And tell me more about about all the child-inappropriate things your babysitter's taught you."

It had been a long time since Freddy had baked anything—put food in the oven, yes; made baked goods, no—but it was pretty easy, and Clara was helpful when she wasn't breaking eggs all over the place or spilling flour on the floor. It still took longer than the recipe estimated, though Freddy had learned long ago that whatever came after the words "prep time" was almost always a lie.

"How's it going in here? I don't smell any— _oh_." Jacob stopped short as he entered the kitchen, eyes wide on Freddy and Clara's work area.  

"Sorry about the mess," Freddy said. "I'll clean when we're done."

"It's not that. Uh…" Jacob stepped forward, opened the fridge, then held up a package of ready-to-bake sugar cookies with "spooky cats" on them. "We were going to make these. Clara, I showed these to you earlier." 

Clara shrugged, not looking up from the dough she was rolling between her hands.

Jacob shrugged in return, putting the cookies back in the fridge. "I guess we'll save these for another time. And by the way, we have a mixer." Jacob pointed at a big copper-colored stand mixer sitting in plain view on the counter. Freddy had had looked right at it, more than once, and it just hadn't registered. Using it would have cut down considerably on time, mess, and labor.

"Well, I guess these are just…made with…love," Freddy fumbled.

"They still would have been made with love if you'd used the mixer. And you wouldn't have gotten flour all over you besides." Jacob reached forward to brush powder from Freddy's sweater, making a couple of swipes before pausing like he'd felt something unusual. Palm on his belly. Jacob's face broke into a grin. "Ooh, _Freddy_ ," he ran his fingers down Freddy's abdomen, pressing hard against the muscle there, then started picking at the hem of his sweater. "What have you been hiding under here?" 

Freddy knocked Jacob's hand away and pointed in the direction of the dining room. "Just go do your work." Jacob pouted, making another grab for Freddy's shirt and getting denied a second time. "We'll bring you cookies when they're done."

Jacob scoffed and sauntered off, pausing to scoop up some cookie dough with his index finger. He walked backward out of the room, sucking suggestively on his finger, eyes on Freddy's.

Twenty minutes later he brought a plateful of warm cookies to the table. Jacob gasped and moaned around the first bite, and Freddy wasn't sure if that was a genuine response or a flirtatious overreaction, but he smiled about it all the same. He and Clara kept working and by the time they were done they had a mountain of cookies on the plate—enough to share with the rest of the Frye family whenever they came back, plus send some home with Clara.

Freddy cleaned up the kitchen then helped Jacob through the last couple of problems on his calc assignment. When he was getting ready to leave, Clara asked Freddy to stay for the movie. Jacob tilted his head in invitation, and Freddy tilted his head back as if to say, "Why not?" 

When Jacob turned the TV back on, _Just Dance_ was still on the screen. Clara tugged on his wrist, asking, "Can we do one more song first?"

Jacob didn't look at Clara at first. Instead he searched Freddy's eyes, assessing. Freddy motioned toward the TV and said, "Please, don't let me stop you."

Jacob rubbed the corner of his eye with a knuckle and said, "Ok, Clara, one more. Which song?"

"'Grease'!" she said excitedly. "I'll go get our jackets."

Clara trotted off toward the entryway. Jacob watched her go, then his gaze shifted back to Freddy. "I suppose you'll want to watch," he said, not stating it as a question.

"I suppose I'll have to," Freddy responded, walking around the couch and settling into the chair that had bad view of the TV but a good view of Jacob and Clara's impromptu stage. He sat the heaping plate of cookies in his lap.

"Are you going to tell people?" Jacob asked. Clara returned wearing a green jacket, holding Jacob's out to him.

"What, that you have mainstream interests?" Freddy said. Jacob pulled his jacket on and unpocketed his phone. "I'm surprised you'd even care what they think."

Jacob aimed a feeble smile at Freddy as Clara queued up the song, getting into position. Jacob tapped something on his phone and lined up next to her.

Clara's "Grease," it turned out, was more accurately "You're the One that I Want." And though Freddy's memory of the movie was hazy, he had a feeling the choreography he was watching was about the same. And after Jacob, in place for Danny Zuko, pulled his jacket tight to mimic how his _chills were multiplying_ , he slid it off his shoulders and whipped it in a circle, tossing it over to Freddy. Freddy caught it, but not before it had hit him in the face _and_ knocked a bunch of cookies off the plate. Jacob slicked his hair back greaser-style, one foot twisting in place. His smirking eyes were on Freddy, making something in Freddy's gut twist too.

Clara lost her jacket on the start of Sandy's verse, tossing it against the opposite wall, pointing a rhythmically scolding finger at Jacob. They rocked back and forth on their feet then Jacob bent at the waist to be closer to her level, walking backward as her little hand pushed on his chest, theatrically stumbling ahead as she drew him forward by the chin. 

Clara looked like she loved this. Honestly, Jacob looked like he loved this too. They must've played a lot to get so good—they didn't even appear to need the on-screen prompts to remember what to do. How many Saturday afternoons had Jacob spent dancing around his living room with a ten-year-old girl?

The chorus started and Jacob and Clara put their toes together, shimmying, twisting their knees. Jacob had to bend low again for them to shake their shoulders, chest-to-chest. They made it through another verse and bridge, an occasional twinkling sound of affirmation coming from the TV when they did things well.

Jacob caught Freddy's eye as he and Clara put their palms together, circling each other and kicking in time. They went round and round, Jacob glancing at Freddy whenever he came around to face him. Freddy leaned on the armrest of his chair, laughing when Jacob picked Clara up and spun her, Clara's braids whipping through the air.

Clara stuck to the "one more song" agreement and Freddy moved over to the couch for the movie. Clara sat next to him and Jacob sat on the floor so Clara could put braids in his hair, another supposed specialty of hers. And as Freddy watched the two of them sing along to "Frozen Heart," Jacob apparently no longer concerned about the state of his reputation, Freddy admitted something to himself that he'd probably known all along. He had more than lust for his tutee. He had a crush. He had a think-of-you-first-thing-in-the-morning, wish-you-were-in-my-bed-every-night, find-you-cute-when-you-sing-with-your-mouth-full-of-half-chewed-cookie, honest-to-god crush.


	6. Multi-Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd rather avoid some smut, here's your tip: the first seven paragraphs after the second line break in the story can be skipped.

"Nice nails, Abberline," Starrick said.

While watching _Frozen_ , Freddy had caved to Jacob and Clara's twin chants of "MAN-I-CURE! MAN-I-CURE!" Clara painted the nails on one hand red while Jacob painted the nails on his other hand pink, holding Freddy's sweaty fingers in his palm.

Freddy took the folder of orientation materials from Starrick and tried to tuck his multicolored nails out of view, grumbling, "Thanks."

"You know it's _parents_ who usually come to preseason orientation," Starrick explained.

Freddy tilted his head toward Starrick and pointed out, "You're here."

"Well, they want the captain on hand for Q&A," Starrick replied, tapping his finger on an invisible badge. "And why are you here? Parents out of town?"

"No, my dad just had to be at the station."

"Oh, papa's a cop," Starrick said, eyebrows up. "Must be a lot of fun at Chez Abberline."

The truth was that a lifetime of being a good kid, of getting straight A's and not drinking and hanging out with other kids who were the same way, had gotten Freddy free reign at his house. His dad trusted him, so on the odd night that Freddy came home at 3:00 a.m. he rarely heard anything about it. As long as he didn't end up in the back of a squad car, he was in the clear.

But the truth didn't sound cool, so Freddy replied with: "Yeah, he can be a real hardass. He'll be gone next weekend, though, which will be nice."

Starrick crossed his arms and gave Freddy a calculating look. "That so?" he drawled. "All weekend?"

"Yeah. Why?"

A slow smirk spread across Starrick's face.  


* * *

  
A knot had been growing in Freddy's stomach since Starrick had told him ("told him" because it had never been a suggestion or a question) that they were having a party at Freddy's place on Friday for the purpose of "preseason bonding, c'mon Abberline, don't you want to make friends with the guys?" With each passing hour, the knot got worse. Now that the final bell had rung on Friday afternoon, Freddy had moved into a place of detached horror—sort of like the moments right before taking a test you underprepared for, when you realize there's no going back.

Jacob swung into view, landing his back hard against the lockers on Freddy's right. He'd taken to stopping by his locker once a day or so; Freddy suspected it had to do with all the empty lockers by his and how well they leant themselves to posing, an activity Jacob had perfected and was doing now, hands in his pockets, one foot flat against the lockers. "Heya, Freddy," he said, grinning.

Freddy glanced Jacob's way then went back to loading his bag up with books. "Hi, Jacob."

"The weekend's here. Got any plans?" Jacob inquired.

He seemed to enjoy asking this question purely to tease Freddy when he responded in the negative. Today, though, Freddy was able to answer differently…not that he wanted to. "Unfortunately, yes. Crawford Starrick is throwing a party tonight." Jacob's face fell. "At my house." And Jacob's face lit back up.

"Ha, no shit," he said, bright. "Am I invited?"

It wasn't a topic they'd visited often, but even so, Jacob had made his distaste for Starrick and anyone who hung around him more than clear. "Do you _want_ to be invited?" Freddy asked.

Jacob cocked his head to the side. "Mmm, depends. My first question is: will there be spin the bottle? My second question is: will you be playing it?" He poked Freddy in the chest for emphasis.

"I don't know, Jacob," Freddy replied, finding it easy to overlook the flirtation with a panic attack looming. "The whole thing is out of my control."

Jacob turned, lifting his back from the lockers and leaning his shoulder against them instead. "You looked stressed," he observed, knitting his brows. Freddy tilted his head in the affirmative. "Well, here's my advice: hide everything breakable or expensive then bribe your neighbors to keep their silence. Bring them some of your famous cookies!" he added, giving Freddy an encouraging nudge. "That'll do the trick."

That was…really good advice, actually. If Freddy wanted to keep his dad from knowing what had gone down at their house while he was away, he'd need to preserve their valuables and keep the neighbors from calling in a complaint. Even so, Freddy knew to avoid paying Jacob too many compliments—his head was already too big—so he deflected with, "It's a recipe I looked up on the spot. They're not mine and they're hardly famous."

"Not if I have anything to say about it." Jacob, on the other hand, seemed to be a pretty big fan of paying Freddy compliments. It was a segment of his flirt routine. "I've been telling everyone about them. I was thinking about taking out a newspaper ad with your number and the words, 'for a good cookie call.'" He wrote out the text on the air in front of him.

"You could just write it in bathroom stalls and save the cash," Freddy pointed out. He shut his locker and mirrored Jacob, leaning against it with one shoulder.

"Such a good point, Freddy, thank you." Jacob fished a half-crushed box of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and slid one out of the pack. "Where would I be without your wisdom?"

"Can I offer you some more?" Freddy asked, chancing a smirk. "Smoking is bad for you."

Jacob hummed and murmured, "You're right. Take this away from me." He held out the cigarette. "Take it."

Freddy did, unthinking, and a second after the cigarette had transferred into his hands, a passing teacher snapped, "Abberline! No cigarettes on school grounds. Put that away!"

Freddy jolted. "It's not—!" He held it up, meaning to protest, then deflated. "Sorry, Mr. Brewster!" he called before shoving the cigarette back at Jacob with a scowl.

Jacob checked his phone and announced, "My ride's here." Tucking the cigarette behind his ear, he added, "Text me, ok?" He smirked, eyebrows tipping up for a second, then left Freddy to stress about the party.

Once he was home, Freddy followed Jacob's advice—locking up any easy-to-carry valuables and bringing some sugar cookies (another Googled recipe) to his neighbors as a pre-apology and plea for their silence. The ex-Boy Scout in him had been proud of his preparedness, at least initially. That was before 200 people flooded his small house (many of them marveling aloud at how small it was, because this town was brimming with rich assholes).

Now there was a kiddie pool full of booze in the middle of his living room floor, a couple of dudes brawling over the right to DJ, a sort of drug depot established in his dad's office, a really out of control game of flip cup in the dining room, and God only knew what other nonsense happening throughout the house.

The reason Freddy didn't know was because he'd locked himself in his bedroom about fifteen minutes ago, immediately after Lucy Thorne had cornered him and tried to stick her hand down his pants. He'd weighed the value of supervising the party against the discomfort of fending off Lucy's affection and decided hiding out in his room was the best way to proceed.

Now he was lying belly down on his bed, turning his phone over in his hands. It was pretty late, but Jacob had said "text me." He'd never said "text me" before—Freddy had only ever responded to Jacob's messages which were, at least in theory, about calc and tutoring.

Freddy typed in something about Jacob's cookie advice, then deleted it. He tried "Lucy Thorne just stuck her hand down my pants" but that was inviting too much commentary. He was going to reference the game of spin the bottle (which Freddy had given a hard pass) and how at this point it had devolved into a sort of many-limbed makeout pile on the floor. The longer Freddy thought about it, the later it got, so in the end he just tapped in "Hey" and hit send.  


* * *

  
Jacob was spending his Friday evening how he spent a lot of his evenings: drooling down his chin and all over Maxwell Roth's cock.

Roth had him by the hair, his tight grip keeping Jacob's sweating face tilted toward the ceiling (all the easier to fuck into that way). Roth was thrusting savagely into Jacob's mouth and down his throat, and Jacob was gamely swallowing all of him. Like most sex acts, it was Roth who trained Jacob in deepthroating: how to relax his gag reflex, how to position his body to have an easier go of it. And Roth not at all grudgingly admitted that, at least in this specialty, the student had become the master.

See, Jacob was one part pliant and one part determined. In the present, he was desperate for air, but even as his lungs burned and his vision dimmed at the edges, he held Roth's gaze and moaned—encouraging, eager.

A few more pushes and Roth bared his teeth, face contorting into something like a grimace, and came down Jacob's throat.

Jacob pulled off Roth's dick with a gasp and a wheezing cough, a last spatter of come landing on his mouth. He wiped it away on one sleeve and turned his attention downward, watching his hand whipping up and down his cock so fast it blurred. Roth's hand was still in Jacob's hair, but a bit gentler now, almost petting.

Jacob glanced up and saw that Roth was watching him jerk off too, expression somewhere between fond and greedy. Jacob leered at him for a second before looking back down, angling his hips to give Roth a little show. As his right hand worked, he lifted his left hand to curl around Roth's fingers in his hair. He held tight, breathing quickening into panting until he came, shooting onto the carpet between Roth's bare feet.

Jacob plopped down on his ass, one hand still holding his spent, twitching dick.

"Gorgeous, darling," Roth rumbled, slipping his hand out of Jacob's as he did so. After a moment, Jacob tucked himself back into his boxer briefs and got to his feet to join Roth on the bed. Jacob pushed him over and kissed him on the mouth, just once, just a short moment of selfishness.

Through their long history of messing around, then dating, then "exploring an open relationship," and now just fucking, Jacob had learned what Roth liked and disliked. Kissing fell into the latter category. Roth said he just never understood the appeal, though Jacob had always suspected it was his own kissing skills (or possible lack thereof) that was the turn-off.  

Jacob wanted to practice on more people, and Roth more than welcomed that. He wanted Jacob to "ebb and flow like the sea" or some other nonsense he'd picked up while pursuing a degree in theatre arts and hanging around with people who thought too hard about impermanence.

"Want something to eat?" Roth asked, tracking Jacob's movements as he crawled up to the head of the bed. "I feel you've earned a sandwich at least."

"I'm with you there," Jacob said, touching his throat. "Water too, if you have some that's filtered."

"Prissy," Roth commented, levering himself up and off the bed. Roth left and Jacob leaned over to grab his jeans off the floor, digging in his pocket for his phone. He scanned the home screen: snaps from Aleck, alerts from Kim Kardashian Hollywood, and…a text from Freddy Abberline.

Jacob smiled. He never expected follow-through when he told Freddy to text him. "Forward" wasn't Freddy's style.

**Today 10:43 PM**

**Freddy**   
Hey.

**Jacob**   
hey yourself   
how's the party?

Watching Freddy start and stop and start and stop his replies was one of Jacob's favorite new pastimes. Freddy averaged about three attempted messages before he sent one, and it always left Jacob wondering what got deleted on the way.

**Freddy** **  
** I locked myself in my bedroom.

Jacob chuckled. Of course he did.

**Jacob** ****  
of course you did  
want me to come kick everyone out? bet i could find a police uniform within the hour, but it might be the tear-away stripper kind

Freddy didn't trip on that for as long as Jacob would have expected—apparently he was building up an immunity. The composing message dots appeared only once before he sent his reply.

**Freddy** **  
** No thank you.

**Jacob** **  
** fine. can i come keep you company at least?

That did it. Start. Stop. Start. Stop. Start.

**Freddy** **  
** You don't have to.

Jacob grinned. That was a yes.

**Jacob** ****  
i have to catch a bus but i'll see you as soon as i can  
wait til i'm there to get wild

Jacob pulled up the address he had saved for Freddy and opened it in his map, checking bus routes and times. He rolled out of bed and started pulling on his layers: jeans, socks, shirt, vest, coat, hat. Roth came back while Jacob was checking his pockets and book bag for anything he'd missed. "Going somewhere?"

Jacob hadn't forgotten Roth, but he had forgotten the sandwiches. "Yes," Jacob said. He grabbed the water and downed it, which irritated his throat in the short term but would soothe in the long term, then picked up one of the sandwiches, which was cut diagonally in two. "I'm going to—uh. Be free."

"Free" was another of Roth's favored words. Jacob was _free_ to do as he pleased and do whomever he found pleasing, not that he'd ever been given much choice in that arrangement. Roth looked momentarily stung before composing himself, and Jacob would be lying if he said it wasn't a little gratifying.

"Well, I would not deign to pin you down, my dear," Roth replied, passing Jacob and sitting cross-legged on the bed.

"Thanks for the food," Jacob said.

"And thank you for the fellatio."

Jacob tipped the sandwich at Roth in acknowledgment before strolling out of the room. He gave Lewis, Roth's unceasingly weird roommate, an over-excited wave before sweeping out of the apartment, then the duplex.

The bus was coming up the street already—you could hear it rattling from a few blocks off. It required some jaywalking and jogging, but Jacob caught it on time. He stood in front of the driver, emptying gobs of dimes, nickels, and pennies from his pockets until he had forked over enough for the fare.

"No food," the driver warned, her eyes on the remaining three quarters of Jacob's sandwich. She kicked out a small trash can for him to throw it in, but Jacob opted to shove the entire sandwich in his mouth instead. He took his transfer ticket, smiled a bready smile, and sauntered toward the back of the bus.

One transfer, a five-star acting gig on Kim Kardashian Hollywood, and a few tastefully retouched selfies later, Jacob was hopping off the bus at the stop a few blocks from Freddy's house.

The wind had picked up and he huddled against it, watching his phone to make sure he was walking in the right direction. He didn't have to watch it for long, though, as the Abberline house made itself known pretty soon. It was the one with all the lights on, with the faint sounds of dubstep escaping its walls.

Jacob let himself in and had to immediately dodge two boys in letterman jackets tussling drunkenly. Out of the range of their punches and kicks, Jacob stared open mouthed at the scene before him. There were people dancing on the couch and coffee table, some girl doing a solo kegstand against the wall, two cheerleaders making out on top of a table to the accompaniment of raucous cheers—and these were just the things he could pick out. Freddy's small house was so packed with people it was hard to breathe, much less move around.

Jacob managed to shoulder through the crowd, making a pit stop in the kitchen. He found a mostly-full bottle of vodka, pulled a carton of orange juice from the fridge, and slid a couple of Solo cups out of their sleeve. He picked his way upstairs, trying not to step on the people sprawled on the staircase, then knocked the vodka bottle on the first door on the left. That's where Freddy had said to find him.

"Freddy? It's me."

The door swung open and Freddy yanked him inside by the collar of his jacket, slamming the door shut behind him. Jacob put on an offended expression and Freddy said, "Sorry. It's—never mind. Hi."

"Freddy, you are throwing an honest-to-God rager out there," Jacob said. He was genuinely impressed. "Party of the century, probably. Well done."

He set the drinks he'd nabbed on Freddy's bedside table and looked around the room. It was modest and tidy: light gray walls; a twin bed in one corner; cheap IKEA shelves, desk, and chair all in matching white. He wasn't sure if it was because Freddy wasn't done unpacking or if he just liked to keep things minimal, but the room did a lot with a little and was so very…Freddy. Guarded, with bits of personality sneaking through, like the tattered quilt at the foot of his bed or the pictures tucked behind his mirror.

Jacob stripped off his coat and hat, leaving them in a pile on the floor, then started making screwdrivers with liberal amounts of vodka in each cup. He handed one off to Freddy, who looked at the cup for a long moment before taking an uncertain sip.

"So, you gonna show me around?" Jacob asked.

"Uh." Freddy pointed at the pieces of furniture as he introduced them. "Bed. Desk. TV. Over there is my closet."

Jacob rolled his eyes. "Great, thanks. Got any childhood photo albums for me to make fun of? Pokemon cards? Come on, Freddy, entertain me." He threw himself on Freddy's bed, a bit of his cocktail sloshing over the edge of his cup.

"No Pokemon cards," Freddy said, "but I do have a clock collection?"

Jacob wrinkled his brow at Freddy over the rim of his cup. "Why?" he asked at the end of his drink. "Why in God's name would you have a _clock collection_ , Freddy?"

Freddy crossed his arms, looking defensive. "My grandpa had a side business repairing them," he explained huffily. "Quartz watches, cuckoo clocks, all that stuff. He taught me how they worked and left me a bunch when he died."

Jacob swung his legs up on Freddy's bed, crossing them at the ankle. "So when the apocalypse hits and we have to go analog, you're my guy?" Jacob deduced. "You're the coveted 'clock guy' that everyone wants on their survival team?"

Freddy shrugged. "I can also run pretty fast."

Jacob finished his drink and leaned over to Freddy's bedside table to pour another. "Well, what are you waiting for? Show me your clock collection, nerd." He leaned forward a little and in a hush added, "And sex it up for me."

Freddy took a generous swig from his drink, eyes on something above Jacob's head. He stopped, scrunched his face, then drank again. He handed the empty cup to Jacob when he was done with it then disappeared into his closet. _A walk-in,_ Jacob thought. _Nice._

Freddy came back out dragging an enormous tote, the kind that you might use to store a few bodies. He sat on the floor and pried it open. Jacob held out Freddy's refilled cup, then joined him on the floor.

"So, clocks are one of the very first complex machines created by humans," Freddy started, blatantly ignoring Jacob's request to sex it up. "Timekeeping started with Ancient Egyptians—obelisks then water clocks—but we're obviously going to skip way ahead, to pendulum clocks…"

And that's when Jacob tuned out. He did this a lot while Freddy explained things to him, which maybe was setting him back a bit in calc. It wasn't that Freddy was bad at explaining things—it was just more fun to watch him than listen to him, and Jacob only had the attention span for one. This way he got to take the time to appreciate the small details, like how Freddy's nose was just a little crooked, how his chin was just barely dimpled. How he talked with his hands, which were sporting chipped nail polish from last week, and which Jacob knew from experience were soft and warm.

Jacob wanted to snatch up Freddy's fingers from where they were skirting along the gears inside one of his clocks and suck them into his mouth, just to see what he would do. But he took another drink of his screwdriver instead.

Freddy was handsome in an abstract way, and he was funny, and he was even more awkward than he realized, and Jacob loved spending time with him, and the second he didn't clam up when Jacob flirted he was going to throw him against a wall and fuck him. Most people would identify this combination of feelings as a crush, but Jacob preferred "ongoing fascination."

Another thing Jacob liked about Freddy was that when you started him talking, then added some liquor, Freddy didn't stop. He was saying something about his grandpa's workshop and his three step-siblings when there was a knock at the door.

"Abberline?" a girl said from the other side. She hiccuped then continued, "Open up, it's Lucy…"

Jacob looked from the door back to Freddy, whose shade of buzzed pink had leveled up to embarrassed pink. Jacob indicated the door with a tilt of his head and Freddy held a finger to his lips.

Lucy jiggled the handle. "Come on, Abberline, I know you're in there. I just wanna talk."

Jacob whispered, "What does she want?"

Looking pained, Freddy replied, "To try and put her hand down my pants. Again." He finished the rest of his drink then whispered, "We'll wait it out."

Jacob would have agreed if Lucy didn't commence nonstop knocking, declaring, "I'm not going anywhere!" _Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock._

Freddy unfolded himself from where he sat and poured himself another drink. Jacob twisted to look at him and murmured, "How do you feel about the implication that we're making out in here?"

Freddy's cup stopped partway to his mouth. "Implication?" he repeated, sounding choked.

Jacob grinned at him and started unbuttoning his shirt.

"Get on the bed," Jacob said, rising to his feet.

Freddy did as he was told, hesitating all the way, and Jacob walked over to the mirror. He unbuckled his pants, mussed his hair, and wet his lips. He could see Freddy's reflection, eyes going wider and wider, face getting redder and redder. Jacob would make out with him for real if there wasn't someone pounding incessantly on the door.

Jacob stomped over to the door. He hit the lights, plunging the room into darkness, then yanked the door open. Lucy Thorne was on the other side, looking a lot worse for wear, red hair falling out of the tight little bun she kept it in. She stumbled a little as the door opened, then recovered, backing up on wobbly legs.

"Freddy," Jacob growled, leaning against the door jamb and glaring, "is occupied."

He slammed the door in Lucy's face and threw the lock. It was too noisy outside to hear whether she left, but at least she'd stopped knocking.

Freddy switched on his bedside lamp, throwing his scowling face into sharp relief.

"Congratulations," Jacob said, waggling his eyebrows. "You are my rumored boyfriend."

"Thanks," Freddy said, deadpan tone belied by his blushing cheeks.

Jacob moved over to the bed and said, "Come on, budge up." Freddy scooted closer to the wall and Jacob sat beside him, stretching his legs out. He grabbed the remote control he'd noticed on the desk earlier and pointed it at the boxy little TV that was propped on a barstool at the foot of Freddy's bed.

He held the remote out to Freddy and, smirking, asked, "What do you say to some real cuddling with your fake boyfriend?"

Freddy swallowed visibly, then nodded. He slid his back a few inches down the wall, angling his torso, and Jacob moved down the bed so he could turn sideways and lean his head against Freddy's chest, reaching a hand around to rest on his abdomen. It took him a second, but then Freddy laid a hand on Jacob's hip, prompting Jacob to snuggle closer and sigh, "Mmm, that's the stuff."

"You cuddle with all your friends?" Freddy asked, flipping through channels.

"Only the cute ones," Jacob told him. The real answer was no, he didn't cuddle with any of his friends. He didn't even cuddle with Roth. He was snuggled up to Freddy right now because Freddy was handsome and Jacob was tipsy and maybe a little needy. And also if he pinned him here he wouldn't go back to talking about clocks.

Freddy settled on a rerun of _Storage Wars_ and Jacob tracked Freddy's breathing. He was stagger breathing, shallow little inhales, too-quick exhales. Jacob made a lot of people nervous for a lot of reasons, and most of the time it sent him on a power trip, but right now he wanted Freddy to relax.

It took about twenty minutes, but finally Freddy's breathing evened out. He stopped clenching his muscles in his abdomen and the hand on Jacob's hip went relaxed and heavy.

Jacob gave it until the next commercial break before sending searching fingers along Freddy's waistband, gently pushing his shirt up a few inches, sneaking his hand up along his belly and sighing. Freddy was strong but not shredded. Kind of like how Freddy was handsome without being hot, smart without being overbearing, patient without taking too much of Jacob's shit. Jacob hadn't really established preferences in his romantic partners, male or female, but he had a growing feeling that Freddy Abberline might be his "type."

He turned his face to drop a gentle kiss to Freddy's chest, then leaned up to finally—finally, after laying groundwork for _weeks_ —get this show and the road and find that Freddy was fast asleep, chin on his chest, hair in his face.

Jacob blew out a sigh and murmured, "Of course. Of course you passed out, Freddy." He changed tracks and grabbed the quilt at the bottom of the bed, tucking it around Freddy. He slid his glasses off and sat them on the bedside table before crawling under the covers, propping himself up on a pillow to watch more TV. Maybe next time.


	7. Default

Freddy woke up with a headache, body smashed against the wall next to his bed, the mismatched ticking of about ten reactivated clocks filling his ears. He was on top of his bedspread but wrapped so tightly in his old quilt that he was sweating. Trapping him against the wall was noted ugly-sleeper Jacob Frye. He was snoring into the space between Freddy's shoulder blades, his face centered in a big patch of drool.

Freddy had had a fantasy of sleepovers with Jacob. They were a lot sweeter and sexier than the present reality—being sweaty and headachey and covered in spit.

Freddy wrested an arm from his swaddle and used it to lift Jacob's arm from where it was draped over his waist, slack hand just an inch from Freddy's morning wood. Still tangled in the blanket, he wriggled his way to the foot of the bed, stilling whenever Jacob stirred like he might wake.

It took an age, but Freddy finally made it off the mattress and freed himself from the blanket, throwing it on the floor in spite. He pushed his hair off his forehead and surveyed the array of clocks he'd left out on the floor—power cords and discarded batteries everywhere. A chuckle bubbled up from the direction of the bed.

Freddy twisted and saw Jacob was facing away from the wall now, hair everywhere and eyes lidded. "You have a wet spot on your back," Jacob informed him, making a circle with his hands, "like, this big."

"That's your drool," Freddy snapped, throat dry. Jacob snickered again. "When did you wake up?"

"You were about halfway down the bed." Jacob pulled the blankets up to his chin and sunk deeper into the pillows—Freddy's pillows—face mostly obscured by hair. "Now why don't you take that shirt off for me? It's all wet."

It was too damn early for this. Freddy stepped around the clocks and into the closet then shut the door behind him. He changed out of his rumpled clothes from the night before and into something clean, wishing he could shower but fearing that Jacob would pick the lock and spy on him if he tried.

Freddy stepped back out into his bedroom and started packing up the clock collection. From the bed Jacob asked, "You ready to face the mess? I do hope you don't have a weak stomach, because I can say with confidence that there will be vomit."

"I can handle it." Freddy picked his glasses up from the bedside table and put them on. He grimaced at the fingerprint smudge on one lens, then took them back off to clean them on the edge of his shirt. "In ten minutes."

"Well in that case." Jacob shifted over toward the wall and held up the covers. "Come back to bed."

That sounded…wonderful. Not just the idea of lying down for a few more minutes but also the turn of phrase, the unintentional implication that it was _their_ bed, that it was a bed Jacob had authority to offer.

But first: "Promise you're not going to drool on me again?"

Jacob smirked. "I make no guarantees."

Freddy put his glasses back on and slid under the covers, the mattress body-warm. Jacob let the blankets fall down around him, then said, "Hand me my phone, will you? I'm gonna call for backup."

"Backup?" Freddy repeated, grabbing Jacob's phone from the bedside table and holding it out.

"For cleaning." Jacob's thumbs were tapping out a message as he explained, "Something tells me Starrick and company aren't downstairs waiting to help you put the house back in order."

True. Starrick seemed more like the type to deliberately pour a bag of chips on the floor then stomp them into a fine dust than to stick around and clean. His family probably had paid cleaners to do that for them besides.

"You don't have to help," Freddy told him.

"I know," Jacob replied, locking and pocketing his phone. He raised an eyebrow at Freddy and continued, "That's why I intend to collect payment."

Freddy cleared his throat. "How?"

Jacob grinned and purred, "You know how, snuggle buddy. C'mere." Jacob planted a hand on the small of Freddy's back and dragged him forward, tucking Freddy's head under his chin and curling a leg around him, unabashed. Not for the first time, Freddy felt like this might all be a ruse. That if he tilted Jacob's face down and finally—finally, after fantasizing about it for weeks—pulled him in for a kiss, Jacob would snicker. Would push him away and say, "Gotcha." Freddy shoved the thought down. Jacob was hot like an oven and smelled like he'd been sweating vodka, but even so Freddy couldn't help but press closer, inserting a knee between Jacob's and slipping an arm around his middle, hand coming to rest on his back.

"I like this new facet of our friendship, Freddy," Jacob murmured, chin moving against the top of Freddy's head as he spoke. "Though it makes me wonder…"

Freddy held his breath, tense.

"…are you ticklish?"

Freddy couldn't have gotten away if he tried. Jacob poked and prodded and pinched, flipping a pleading Freddy onto his back so he could get him on both sides. It was over about as soon as it started, however, when Jacob got fingers in Freddy's armpit and Freddy yelped and reflexively kneed him in the crotch.  


* * *

  
"This is a nightmare," Freddy said. He'd been rooted in the same place for a couple of minutes, just off the landing of the stairs with a wide view of the living room. He'd never seen so damn many cups and cans and bottles in one place, not to mention a weird assortment of popped balloons and crushed food and forgotten clothing and cigarette butts.

"Yeah, so we've heard," Jacob called back from where he was banging around in the kitchen. After a minute he came out with three cups of instant coffee in hand. Jacob handed one to Freddy, then walked over to the boy who was passed out on the couch with three inches of crack hanging out of his drooping pants.

Jacob gave him a sharp flick on the ear and the boy shot into a sitting position, flailing his arms and slurring, "No, it wasn't me, not guilty." Jacob waited until he stilled, then held out the hand with the two coffee cups. The boy took one, impish face breaking into a smile. "Oh hello, Jacob."

"Robbie," Jacob said in greeting. "Stay and help us clean, please?"

Robbie's mouth was occupied by a long drink of coffee, but he held out a thumbs up.

"Swell," Jacob replied. He turned back to Freddy and told him, "Backup's on its way, but they only agreed on the condition that we got rid of all the puke, piss, et cetera ourselves. So—supplies?"

Freddy jerked his head in the direction of the hallway closet and he and Jacob started that way, discussing the likely body fluids hotspots to hit with the mop first.

When help showed up, it wasn't Floppy, Girly, or Shorty—who apparently weren't going to be known to Freddy by their real names just yet—but Evie and Henry. They brought a box of donuts and some more coffee, which Freddy chugged greedily, trying to drown the lingering smell of the vomit he'd just scrubbed from the textured floor of the shower.

"The trick," Robbie was saying over the sounds of glass bottles clinking against each other in one of the trash bags he was carrying around, "is getting the place clean—but not so clean that your parents are suspicious."

Henry pointed the can of disinfectant he was wielding in Robbie's direction, "That's actually really smart." He and Freddy were tackling the gunked-up kitchen together while Jacob and Evie worked on the living room. Robbie had already come through with his trash bags, which left Freddy to clean out the sink and load the dishwasher while Henry washed off the counters.

"I should make sure someone invites him to all the unofficial b-ball bashes I have," Freddy grumbled, scraping what he hoped was nacho excess—and not vomit—off a plate.

"You know," Henry started, "you don't have to let Starrick push you into these things. He's captain, but he doesn't actually have that much sway when it comes to choosing the team. That's up to Coach Billingsworth and Coach Westhouse."

Freddy had figured as much. But there was something in the way Starrick carried himself that had Freddy thinking maybe, just maybe, he had more influence over the process than an average team captain might. Perhaps it was the hair?

"And what about 'off-court bonding'? If you're no fan of Starrick, why put up with him at lunch and all that?" Freddy asked.

Henry stopped scrubbing, just for a split second, then went back to it. "I never said I wasn't a fan of Starrick," he replied, cautious, like someone might be listening. "But if that was the case, I'd still like to stay in his good books, as well as keep an eye on him. He may not pick the team, but he can make being a member of said team…difficult."

Freddy rinsed some food down the drain and flipped on the garbage disposal for a couple of seconds. Something else, something metal it sounded like, had fallen down there during the course of the party. He'd deal with it later. He went back to loading dishes, more thankful than ever to live in a house with a dishwasher. That was an amenity they didn't have at the old place.

In the next room, Freddy could see Evie thumbing through his dad's vinyl collection and Jacob futzing with the old turntable. Evie pulled a record off the shelf and held it out for Jacob saying, " _Best of Redbone._ Shall we?"

Jacob chuckled. "Let's." Evie handed him the record sleeve and Jacob slid the vinyl out, setting it on the turntable and dropping the needle. "Come and Get Your Love" started up, and Jacob cranked it way too loud for Freddy's hangover.

Evie commenced a sort of one-person line dance (which Freddy supposed, if it only involved one person, it wasn't much of a line dance). Jacob, who was kick-stepping circles around her, said, "Evie. You can't do the Electric Slide to songs that aren't 'The Electric Slide.'"

"For one," Evie replied loudly, shimmying her shoulders, "the song is actually called ‘Electric Boogie, Open Parenthesis, The Electric Slide, Closing Parenthesis'—"

"Oh my God," Jacob interjected.

"—and two, yes you can. Because as you can see, I'm doing it right now."

Freddy glanced to his left and saw that Henry had halted scrubbing, instead leaning against the countertop and watching the Frye twins dance, a grin on his face that could only be described as "dopey."

"If you don't mind me asking," Freddy said, music so loud he was certain only Henry could hear, "are you and Evie together?"

Jacob caught Evie mid-shuffle and bumped his hip against hers, saying, "Bop!" aloud. They started repeating the motion, going "Bop! Bop!" in time.

Henry's smile widened and he said, "Yeah. Yes." He looked over at Freddy and echoed, "And if you don't mind _me_ asking, are you and Jacob…?"

At this point Jacob swiveled his back toward Evie, dropped his hands to his knees, and started…twerking. And for that alone, Freddy felt little regret when he had to answer, "No."

Evie squealed with laughter, giving Jacob a hard slap on the hip. Shaking his head, Henry stomped into the living room. "We are supposed to be cleaning!" he reminded them loudly. He sprayed disinfectant on them both. "And this is filthy."

"Greenie," Jacob rumbled, over-the-top husky. He maneuvered Henry in between himself and Evie (Henry protesting all the way) and they trapped him, bouncing him back and forth between their chests like a hapless pinball.

Henry managed to halt the dance party eventually, and after about two more hours of picking up, scrubbing down, and vacuuming all around, the place was clean. Though not too much cleaner than it was before Freddy's dad left, per Robbie's instructions. Robbie took his leave, grabbing his own jacket and helping himself to some of the clothes other partygoers left behind. "Thanks so much for your help. I'm Frederick, by the way," Freddy said, realizing he hadn't established this before.

"Robert Topping, at your disposal," the boy replied, holding out a hand. Freddy shook it.

"Where do I know that name from?" he wondered aloud. Jacob caught his eye over Robert's shoulder, signed the word "book," pointed at himself, then mimed a blowjob. Oh, right. The hypothetical textbook thief who took hypothetical payment in blowjobs, Robert Topping. Freddy cleared his throat.

"From my post-party cleanup services, no doubt," Robert supplied, grinning. "See you around, Frederick."

"We should go too," Evie concluded, looking at her phone. "However. Should we finish these donuts and relax for a while instead?"

Henry and Jacob nodded their agreement. Freddy, keenly aware that at this point he'd spent something like twelve hours with Jacob Frye and equally pleased that he didn't seem to want to leave yet, said, "I'll get some napkins."

He returned to the living room a minute later, where Jacob was sprawled across the couch like an asshole, forcing Evie and Henry into either of the chairs. Evie was flipping through channels so fast that Freddy didn't know how she could tell what was on them; Henry was considering his donut options with concentration.

"Before I forget: I want to say thank you," Freddy said, handing out the napkins. "This was really kind of you. I would have been scrubbing until this time tomorrow without your help."

Jacob sat up on the sofa, still taking up two-thirds of it. He grinned roguishly at Freddy said, "Well, we slept together—"

"Not like that," Freddy hastened to correct, glancing between Henry and Evie.

"—and cleanup is just part of the program," Jacob finished. He yanked Freddy down to the couch by a belt loop, and Freddy put a couple of inches between them, pushing Jacob's hand away as he tried to feed him his donut.

Henry and Evie exchanged a wary look.  


* * *

 

"Hey, Abberline."

Freddy stopped walking and glanced ceilingward, praying for strength, before turning on his heel to face Starrick's table. Starrick jerked his head toward an empty chair and Freddy, gripping his lunch tray tight, made his way over.

It was Thursday and Freddy had yet to receive any sort of acknowledgment, positive or negative, that he'd opened his home for Starrick's party. Of course, Freddy had also been avoiding Starrick and the people he hung out with at all costs, so he was partly to blame.

Freddy sat, pulling his chair in. He got a split second warning of what was coming next when, across the table, Henry shot a quizzical look over Freddy's shoulder.

Someone grabbed Freddy's chair and yanked it violently backward. Freddy gripped the seat of the chair to keep from falling off, ankles dragging along the floor in front of him as he was pulled two, three feet away from his spot. Jacob stepped out from behind Freddy and picked up his lunch tray. "Follow me," he instructed, giving Freddy a quick smile before striding away.

Freddy looked around the table, at Starrick's exasperated glare and Pearl's raised eyebrows and Henry's private smile. Freddy said, "Uh…" Coming up blank, he settled on a shrug, then scrambled to trail Jacob to his table.

Jacob sat Freddy's tray down next to his, kicking out the chair and saying, "Sit." Freddy did as he was told. He glanced between the familiar faces at the table, lifting one hand in a wave. "Freddy," Jacob said, throwing an arm around his shoulders, "this is Agnes."

Agnes, formerly Girly, waved back at Freddy and said, "We've heard a lot about you."

"A whole lot," grumbled Shorty, giving Jacob a sidelong glance.

"And that's Ned, who you can't tell anything to in confidence," Jacob finished, gritting his teeth. He gave Freddy a final pat on his shoulder before retreating, grabbing his fork to go to work on his half-finished plate of food. "We are your new friend group."

Freddy hadn't asked for this. Well, not aloud. Still, he didn't have to know much about Jacob's friends to get the feeling that spending time with them would be easier on his wits than taking lunch with Starrick. "What, did you take a vote on it or something?" Freddy asked.

"You say that like Jacob asks permission before he does things," Agnes said wryly.

"Which isn't to say you're not welcome," Ned added, giving Agnes a little shove. "Besides, this way we won't have to listen to him go on and on about your cute sweaters and your nice smile and your—"

"It wasn't funny the first time, Ned!" Jacob cut him off, stabbing his food harder than necessary. Apparently he didn't like when someone did his flirting _for_ him.

Freddy smiled down at his plate—he couldn't help it. "Oh, I see what he's talking about," Agnes commented. Ned nodded a little, assessing. T

hat was Girly and Shorty down, which left—who had Cecily said Jacob spent late nights out with? Matt? No, Max.

But when the boy Freddy had been referring to as "Floppy" sat down, Jacob said, "Aleck! This is Freddy."

"Ahh, the famous Freddy!" Aleck said, smile bright enough to blind. "I hear you make a mean cookie," he added conspiratorially.

"Just rumors," Freddy replied. Aleck tittered and pushed his hair back.

"I have a present for you," Aleck told Jacob, digging around in his pockets. He sat two keys on the table between them.

"Whoa." Jacob held the keys out and looked at them closely, lining them up and tracing a fingertip along their identically-cut teeth. "Aleck, you're a genius."

"Well that, patently, is untrue," Aleck demurred, looking flattered nonetheless. "Although I've also discovered that this is the same key for the outside door."

"Just when I think you can't surpass yourself…" Jacob reached over and mussed Aleck's hair affectionately.

"All right, all right," Ned said. "Gimme the original so I can get it back before they notice it's gone."

Jacob turned the keys over in his fingers, and that's when Freddy noticed that one of them had DO NOT DUPLICATE stamped into the side. Jacob slid that key over the tabletop to Ned, who pocketed it and left without another word. Jacob handed the other key back to Aleck, saying, "Try and make some copies off that when you have time; some of them are bound to work."

"What's the key for?" Freddy asked, curiosity overcoming caution.

Jacob winked at him and replied, "All in good time."


	8. The Less I Know the Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We're not 'breaking in.'" Aleck jangled a ring of keys between them, then separated a familiar-looking gold key from the group. "We've got a key."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Recommended listening:** [This rad as hell _Jump_ -inspired playlist.](http://darwin.co.vu/post/139008436749) <3
> 
>  **Smut-skippers:** Beware the first half of the text below the line break.

**Jacob**  
hot tub party tonight. pick you up at 10

 **Freddy** **  
** What if I don't want to come? You're not even gonna ask?

 **Jacob  
** you do, though. you do want to come  
besides, it's for my birthday. don't leave me hanging on my birthday

 **Freddy** **  
** Today's your birthday? You didn't say anything.

 **Jacob**  
it was monday actually

 **Freddy** **  
** You didn't say anything then either. Do I need to bring something?

 **Jacob  
** just your cute booty in your tightest swimwear  
also probably a towel  
text you when we're on our way

Chewing on the insides of his cheeks, Freddy rose from his bed and stood with his back to his mirror. Fingers at his shoulders, he rucked up the back of his shirt and twisted to look at his reflection, checking his bacne situation. In the words of the dermatologist he asked to visit in lieu of a proper Christmas gift last year, it was holding at "mild and nothing to worry about." Which remained ironic because he worried about it constantly.

Bacne or no, he could _really_ use a soak. Every morning this week before class, Freddy had run basketball drills and played pickup games with a few boys and girls who were also doing tryouts early next week. (They were freshmen, mostly—first-timers like Freddy who feared they might not make the cut.) Then every day after class he took to the weight room to train a different muscle group, resting only on tutoring day. And consequently, he was sore everywhere. Absolutely everywhere. Muscles he'd forgotten he even had would throw up protest when he moved this way or that.

It was this—combined with the enticing image of what Jacob might look like, shirtless and sopping—that sent Freddy to his dresser to start digging for his swim shorts.

A couple of hours later, Freddy was leaving his house and walking toward a 1980s station wagon (complete with wood paneling and suspiciously dark smoke curling out of the tail pipe) that sat idling on the curb.

Freddy ducked into the backseat and settled down next to Ned. Agnes was behind the wheel, Aleck was riding shotgun, and Jacob was…not in the car. "Jacob's meeting us there," Ned told him, answering the unspoken query. Freddy may have been semi-officially inducted into their clique, but there was no use pretending Jacob wasn't his main tie.

Fifteen minutes later they rolled up to Animus Academy, Agnes pulling over on the street instead of into the lot. Frowning at the building's familiar silhouette, Freddy asked, "Why are we at the school?"

"We're breaking into the pool," Agnes replied, as nonchalantly as one might say "we're having pancakes for breakfast." She killed the engine and added, "Jacob probably didn't tell you because he thought you'd freak out."

Freddy laughed. He was on the only one. Processing, he opened his mouth to object, but Aleck spoke first. "We're not 'breaking in.'" He jangled a ring of keys between them, then separated a familiar-looking gold key from the group. "We've got a key."

"That's still breaking in!" Freddy hissed, a little shrill. "Guys—"

"Freddy, relax," Ned said, voice pitched low. "We've been planning this for ages. It's foolproof."

"You've got to b—"

"Foolproof," Ned cut him off, holding up a hand. "On nights when there aren't any games or activities, the building is empty by 10, including custodial staff. And Aleck used his pals in computer club to figure out the sightlines of all the security cameras." Freddy fidgeted, looking at the building in the near distance, dark but for the streetlights glinting off the windows. "Now you can wait in the car or you can come inside. Though I know we'd prefer the latter."

Ned opened his door, stepped out, and pressed down on the lock inside the door before shutting it again. Aleck and Agnes followed suit, flooding the car with cool air.

Freddy knew he had other options. He could walk to the bus stop. He didn't _have_ to choose between getting a misdemeanor and freezing for an undetermined period of time in Agnes' car. He glanced at the group waiting outside, then looked at his hands. Freddy's thoughts found Jacob, imagining him half-naked and dripping. Jacob, teasing him for being gutless. Jacob, disappointed that Freddy didn't show up for his belated birthday celebration. In the hours between getting his texts and being picked up by Agnes, Freddy had stumbled upon and placed an order for what he thought was a pretty smart gift, but it wouldn't ship for a while yet. For now all he had to offer Jacob was his company.

Freddy steeled himself, then exited the station wagon. The group turned to look at him, three sets of expectant eyes, and he muttered, "OK, let's go."

Aleck exclaimed, "Wonderful!" and was frantically shushed by the rest of the group. "Oh, right." He held a finger to his lips, then used the same finger to gesture for them to follow.

Aleck led them through the yard in a wide arc, avoiding the parking lot and instead walking along the yellowing grass. They hurried, crouched low, to a line of hedges then cut straight toward the corner of the building.

"Keep against the wall," Aleck whispered. Everyone flattened their backs to the brick and started nudging along crabwise.

This side of the school faced the quad: some outdoor dining and lawn space that got little use now that it had cooled down. Beyond the quad was a steep hill, then a span of sporting fields, then the street. It was far enough from the building here that even if a car did pass, they probably wouldn't be spotted.

They made it to the doors. Aleck went for the lock on the leftmost set while the rest of them sunk down low, watching the yard.

The copied key stuck, of course. Aleck struggled with it, angling it up and down, pulling the key in and out, letting out a stream of G-rated curses under his breath. Now that they'd stopped creeping around, Freddy had nothing to distract himself from his clammy hands or racing heart. He mistook every shadow, every sound, for a person there to bust them.

"Come _on_ , Aleck," Agnes urged, talking out of the side of her mouth.

Aleck grumbled, "I'm trying! I—" The key turned in the lock. "Got it!"

They piled through the doors and kept close to the wall as they made their way to the pool. The key stuck again, but inside Freddy felt less exposed (even if he was breaking the law officially now, whereas outside they were scarcely more than suspicious characters).

Aleck got results a little quicker this time. He pulled the door open and directed them inside with an extravagant wave of one arm.

It had been years since Freddy's tenure on the swimming and diving team, but pools still felt like home. The warm air, the smell of chlorine—calm settled over him as they walked into the dark, echoing room.

The hot tub was on the other end of the space, past the diving boards and swimming lanes and tucked in the corner by the shallow end of the pool where children learned to float. They navigated by the turquoise glow of the underwater lights, by the low murmur of two voices coming from the hot tub.

Freddy knew one of the silhouettes there: broad-shouldered with chin length hair. Jacob popped up from where he sat as they drew closer. He crossed the water and folded his arms over the ledge, smiling at them and murmuring, "You made it."

"We made it," Aleck said, matching Jacob's cadence. "Did you have trouble with your key at all?"

Jacob gave him a half shrug. "A little."

Agnes, Aleck, and Ned started stripping off their bags and jackets and stepping out of their shoes. At the edge of the tub, Jacob tilted his head, damp tips of his hair spreading over his shoulder. "Hi, Freddy."

"You left out some of the specifics," Freddy replied, narrowing his eyes.

Jacob peered up at him, a sly smile spreading over his face. "I also lied about it being for my birthday," he whispered.

Freddy pinched the bridge his nose, nudging up his glasses. _Jesus, Jacob._

"He got you with that one, did he?" Agnes interjected. She'd peeled out of her layers at record speed and was the first one going into the hot tub. She took the stairs slowly, skin probably still cold from being outside. "At least he did it close to his actual birthday, otherwise he'd get something from you twice: once for his spontaneous fake birthday and then again for his real one."

Ned was next into the water. He wore an A-shirt with his swim trunks, which was a brilliant bacne cover-up that Freddy wished he'd thought of. "Commit it to memory: ninth of November. Remember it when Jacob asks you to go theater-hopping in the middle of July and tries to use the date he listed on Facebook as proof that it's his birthday," Ned advised. "Sometimes he gets Evie in on that part. They work together like a little…unit of lies."

Freddy tipped his head, looking from Ned back to Jacob, who was biting his lip, eyes dancing the dance of someone who had swindled an extra birthday gift out of almost everyone he knows.

"I just wanted to make sure you came," Jacob said. "Are you angry?"

Freddy sighed. "Less than I should be."

The other guy in the tub straightened and walked over. He was tall and slim, with a pointed chin and sharp nose. His smile lines explained why Freddy had never seen him around school: he was older. The cool old friend; all friend groups had a cool old friend.

"We haven't met," the stranger said, cocking his head. He drew even with Jacob and slid a hand into his hair. Jacob stiffened at first, then angled into his touch like a dog getting its ear scratched. "I'm Maxwell Roth. And you are?"

 _Oh._ Freddy's stomach plummeted. He felt it sink past his ribs and plinko all the way down to his feet. _Oh._

"Uh." Freddy swallowed, dropped Roth's gaze. "Frederick…Abberline."

Not waiting for a reply, not waiting for Jacob to annotate his introduction with some embarrassing trivia, Freddy turned on his heel and marched over to the benches that lined the pool walls. He fixed his eyes on the cement bricks and tried to ignore the churning in his gut as he stripped out of the clothes he wore over his trunks. He folded each item as he removed it, stacking them in a neat pile.

He decided to leave his glasses there too. They probably wouldn't get wet in the hot tub, but he might be assisted by a little blurry vision.

Freddy padded over to the others, eyes on the floor, and was greeted with a wolf-whistle. "Look at you, Freddy Hotbody," Agnes said. She swirled one hand in the water at her side and added, "Come sit by Auntie Agnes."

Freddy summoned a smile and joined Agnes on her side of the hot tub, dangling his legs in for a minute before levering off the edge and sinking into the water. The others were chatting among themselves, but Freddy tuned them out. He positioned himself in front of one of the jets and let the water beat against his back, trying to keep his gaze fixed on anything other than Roth, who sat with his arm curled loosely around Jacob's shoulders.

Roth didn't really join the others in conversation; instead he watched his own fingers playing with Jacob's hair. At first glance Freddy might have classified Roth as "handsome"—he had sort of pretty heavy-lidded eyes, and Freddy had always been a big fan of big noses. But now—no. Roth was horse-faced. Mean-looking, like he'd been stretched in a taffy pull and come out a minute before he turned into Jafar.

Freddy caught himself glaring—unfortunately just a split-second after Roth noticed it. He averted his eyes, blushing, but Roth continued to stare. Freddy sunk a little lower in the hot tub until the water was covering his chin, then his mouth.

Freddy didn't believe in the concept of lying by omission. Maybe it was the terminology that tripped him—"lie" seemed so much more active than simply not offering all the information. He'd never asked Jacob if he was seeing anyone, so Jacob had no reason to tell him about it, even while he teased and touched. So what did this change, really? Jacob had never tried to make a move. He'd joked about it, but he'd always stopped before taking that next step. Roth's existence just removed the element of "will they, won't they" from the equation. Jacob flirted because he was a flirt, not because Freddy was special.

"Freddy." Freddy looked up, squinting to try and get the speaker—Jacob—in focus. "You coming?"

"Yep," he said, no idea what he was agreeing to.

Jacob pushed himself out of the hot tub as the others took the stairs and, despite the pit stubbornly growing in Freddy's stomach, he had to stifle a laugh as he got an eyeful of Jacob's ass in the tiniest trunks he'd ever seen. Freddy had thought his were a little small, slim and hemmed at mid-thigh compared to Aleck's and Ned's board shorts which went all the way to the knee. Jacob's, meanwhile, were tight and tiny, low on his abdomen and dressing just the top inch of his hairy thighs.

"You kids have fun," Roth said. He spread his arms wide and let his legs float to the surface of the water.

They stepped into the shallow end of the pool, everyone going slow and shivering, keeping their arms above the water as they waded toward the lanes. Once they hit the four feet they broke into a game of chicken: Ned on Agnes' shoulders, Jacob on Aleck's, Freddy trying to stay out of the range of their swaying bodies and kicking feet.  

Ned was small but ferocious: he toppled Jacob after a couple of minutes, then stood flexing over them all, Agnes spewing taunts. Jacob recovered then sunk beneath the water in front of Freddy, tapping his shins. Freddy hesitated, then climbed on, barely finding his balance before Jacob straightened and sent water cascading from them both.

Freddy only had a split-second to contemplate Jacob's pruney fingers digging into his knees, Jacob's sopping hair underneath his hands. Then Ned and Agnes were coming at them, Ned raising his fists and Agnes bobbing up and down to fill her mouth and spit at Jacob. Dirty but clever.

Freddy paddled, splashing Agnes and Ned with big ribbons of water. Jacob walked them slowly sideways until Freddy was able to yank Ned backward and off Agnes' shoulders. Jacob crowed "Victory!" and tipped Freddy from his own.

They went for a third round, Freddy and Jacob on the shoulders of Agnes and Aleck, respectively. Freddy worked out a little frustration, the mostly non-sexual kind, by clutching Jacob's fists and pushing, pushing down and back as hard as he could. But Jacob matched him, expression flickering between a smile and a grimace as he tried to drive him back.

There wasn't a winner that round. Jacob and Freddy pitched sideways, dragging each other into the water. Silence enveloped them and Freddy opened his eyes, just a crack, to see a field of bubbles, then Jacob's smirking face, hair floating around him like a dark halo.

They surfaced and Jacob kept grinning, shaking excess water from his hair. Freddy wiped his eyes and looked around at Agnes when she suggested, "Cannonball contest?"

They swam down to the deep end as a unit, and Agnes climbed out at the ladder, then up to the diving board. She stood at the end, bending and unbending her knees, the board not giving much. "Not very bouncy," she commented. Freddy couldn't read her face at this distance, not without his glasses, but she sounded grumpy.

"Adjust the fulcrum," Freddy suggested.

"The what?"

He pointed. "The fulcrum. It's that big circular knob—changes the stiffness of the board. Roll it with your foot."

Agnes walked back on the diving board and and twisted the fulcrum. When she stepped forward again, the edge of the board sunk under her weight, and sprang as she bounced. Midair, she declared, "Better!" then jumped in with a splash.

"'The fulcrum'?" Jacob repeated, treading water next to him.

"I used to be on the diving team." Freddy added a shrug, which was a little weird to pull off in the water.

"Ooh, does that mean you can do fancy dives?" Aleck asked. "Like on the Olympics?"

"Nothing like on the Olympics…"

"That's not a no," Ned pointed out. "Do a fancy dive!"

Then Agnes: "Fancy dive!"

Jacob started up a chant, slapping the water in time. "FANCY DIVE. FANCY DIVE."

"OK! Fine. Jesus." Freddy climbed out of the pool and mounted the springboard. He adjusted the fulcrum again and stepped back, considering.

He used to practice this every day for hours, and at his best he only managed to pull off his dives about seventy percent of the time. Even if he could still feel the phantom forces on his muscles—vertical and horizontal velocity, rotation—Freddy knew he couldn't do a reverse 3.5 somersault tuck if he wanted to.

At the same time, he figured doing a simple but well-executed forward pike would disappoint.

"Hurry up!" Jacob called from the water. Someone shushed him.

Freddy shook out his muscles and tried to visualize what he was about to do. He tightened the string on his swim shorts, strode forward, and kicked off the board. One jump. Arms up. Two jumps. Go.

It was all torque and instinct at this point. It wasn't like riding a bike, not even remotely, but Freddy knew what to do. He flipped backward toward the board and, legs in the air, he twisted. And again. As gravity started to pull him downward, he somersaulted, spotted the water, and went straight in.

It wasn't a super clean entry—he'd be lucky to rate some sevens with all this—but judging by his everyone's raucous cheers he'd just pulled off an unreal feat.

Freddy surfaced. Jacob shouted, "WHAT" and shoved Freddy back in by his shoulders, muffling everyone's applause again. Freddy spluttered when he came back up, a little water in his nose. "What's that called?!"

"Uh—" Freddy wiped off his face. "It's a reverse 1.5 somersault 1.5 twist." Jacob's eyebrows drew together. "What?"

"Oh, I just thought it would have a cooler name. Like…spinning eagle or something." Jacob recovered and asked, "Can you teach me? Do you know more? Can you teach me?" He wrapped his fingers around Freddy's wrist and started dragging him back toward the diving board.

"I can't just _teach_ you," Freddy said. He let Jacob tow him along, even so. "You need a trampoline and a spotting harness and…like…certifications. Jacob!"

"Teach me," Jacob murmured, drawing Freddy in and trapping his arm between them. Their knees were bumping as they continued to tread water, too close. "Teach me and I'll forgive you for ignoring my express instructions to come here in your tiniest swimwear. You used to be on the diving team, so I know you have a speedo at home now."

Freddy smiled. That was true. Jacob hauled him out of the pool, making Freddy yelp as he hit his funny bone on the ladder railing. Roth watched them closely from his post in the hot tub.  
  


* * *

  
Roth pinned Jacob's head back against the mattress, palm hot even on Jacob's sweating brow. "Don't. Come."

Dammit, and he was so close. Jacob whined a little, but obediently dropped his cock and twisted his fingers in the blankets instead.

"Good." Roth sucked a bite into Jacob's neck then leaned away, straightening on his knees. He went back to pumping his hips.

Jacob closed his eyes and tried to distract himself with something complicated. Calculus. The applications of differentiation. What did Freddy say? That the standard technique of solving equations with differentiation went back to Newton. Or the other guy who might have invented calc—Lipschitz or whoever.

Freddy always did shit like that. He tried to weave stories around all his stupid math work, like Jacob's problem with calc was that it wasn't narrative-driven enough. It was cute, though, he supposed. Cute that Freddy wouldn't settle at knowing how to do calculus, and that he had to know the history of it too.

Freddy was cute in general. Freddy was cute in his little 1980s-lookin' swim shorts, the fashiony fuck. He was cute with his glasses off, and on, and he was cute when he smiled triumphantly after executing a forward something-something pike. Jacob loved that version Freddy—the one that spun elegantly off the edge of springboards and came up grinning, confidence winning out over bashfulness for once. The one that played to win in a game of chicken, squeezing Jacob's fists so hard his knuckles popped.

Maybe pools made Freddy bolder. Like chlorine smell got him high. Jacob imagined what would happen if he could get Freddy back in that hot tub, alone. Bolstered by the low lights and the heat, Freddy would go for what he wanted (which, for the sake of fantasy, was also what Jacob wanted). He'd close the space between them and settle between Jacob's knees. He'd lean in, eyes on Jacob's lips, and treat him to a long, lavish kiss. He'd be pushy, literally pushy, forcing Jacob to lean back at an awkward angle to keep kissing him. And just as Jacob was feeling hot to the point of dizziness—arousal mixing with heat from the pool to make him feverish—Freddy would lift Jacob out of the tub and deposit him roughly on the ledge. Still kissing, curling his tongue against Jacob's, he'd claw at Jacob's trunks, toss them away. Hands on Jacob's hips, Freddy would break the kiss to lean down, down, then take Jacob's cock in his mouth. He'd bob, moan, work one hand up and down Jacob's cock while the other one massaged his balls.

Jacob imagined he'd try to roll his hips, but Freddy would pin them down and pull off, mouthing along the base of his dick, panting. "Do you want to come like this?" Jacob would shake his head. "How?"

"You know." Because, again, for the sake of fantasy—Freddy would know.

Freddy'd get out of the hot tub and peel off his own shorts, freeing his erection, thick and red and wet. He'd lift one of Jacob's legs up over his shoulder, just about bending him in two as he rocked forward on his knees and pushed in. And again. And again, hips rolling, breath quickening. Jacob would curl his other leg around Freddy's, would wrap his arms around his back and dig his nails in. Freddy would suck Jacob's lower lip into his mouth and hold it there, teeth sharp, and Jacob would drop his hands to scrabble at Freddy's hips, his ass. He'd pull him in, harder, faster. Jacob's cock would be caught between their bellies, dripping, getting just enough friction to—to—

Jacob came. He gasped and moaned and shook through it, eyes crossing behind closed lids, one flailing hand finding the bars of Roth's headboard, the other still knotted in the sheets. It passed and his body went limp, head falling to the side. He could smell chlorine in his hair.

"You just came with nothing touching your dick."

Jacob lifted his head and looked first at the mess on his belly, then at Roth. He thought Roth would be mad that Jacob ignored his command, jizzing like a touch-starved preteen after Roth had told him to hold it in. He didn't look angry though.

Jacob cleared his throat. "Yeah."

"Have you been practicing that?"

Jacob shook his head.

Roth blew out a breath. "You are—" he started snapping his hips so fast and hard that Jacob felt his back scoot up the bed on the end of each thrust "—a magnificent boy."

Jacob covered his face with one hand and laughed. He waited for Roth to finish and couldn't find it in himself to care when Roth kneed up the bed to jerk off on Jacob's chest without asking.

These days, Jacob's first instinct when something new and interesting happened was to tell Freddy. Renewed rumors about Starrick and Pearl being kissing cousins? Tell Freddy. The local furniture showroom updated their cheesy commercial? Tell Freddy. Orgasmed just by _thinking_ about friction on his dick, incidentally provided by a fantasy of Freddy fucking him into the school pool tiles? …Unfortunately, even Jacob knew where to draw the line.

He sat on the edge of the bed and took the T-shirt Roth held out to clean up.

Like he was reading his mind, Roth said, "That Freddy kid likes you."

Jacob paused, midway through wiping come off his chest. "You think so?"

"Don't play dumb, Jacob, it doesn't suit you," Roth said, oddly fond considering the topic. "You like being liked, and you're stoking that flame as high and hot as you can get it." Roth sat forward and tilted his head, considering Jacob closely. "Do you plan to date him?"

Jacob's insides squirmed, part nervous to be found out, part excited to have that desire put in the spotlight. Freddy probably wanted to date. Probably wanted the whole thing: the gifts, the dinners, the anniversaries. Jacob didn't date. Well, didn't _date_ -date. But if he did…

Jacob found a sarcastic inflection and replied, "Why, is it forbidden?"

"I would never forbid you from a thing, darling. I just hate to see you build your own prison." Roth took the T-shirt Jacob had used to wipe their come away and tossed it toward the pile of dirty clothes in the corner. "It's a dreadful waste."

"A prison," Jacob echoed. "That's rich. You won't date me, you don't want me to date others—but it's _Freddy_ that's the prison."

Roth leaned out of Jacob's space and settled back against his pillows. "You guilt me for not wanting to keep you in a cage. Have you ever stopped to consider I'm doing what's best for you?" Jacob glanced back over his shoulder. "You don't want anyone keeping you home on Friday nights or dragging you to their cousin's poetry readings. You bore easily, Jacob, and I'd rather be the solution to your boredom than the cause of it."

He'd thought it before, every time Roth downgraded their relationship, every time Roth introduced Jacob as "an old friend." He'd never said it though, because he didn't want to piss Roth off and drive him away for good. But, since they were being honest… "Are you ashamed of me?"

A pause. "Why do you say that?" Roth's tone was one of sweet concern, but Jacob couldn't help but notice that he wasn't answering the question

He looked up from the floor and turned, lying on his side to face Roth. "You think we should be open, you think labels are toxic—fine. But why not…why not take me out with you sometimes? To a movie or to those house parties you're always at. It's like you don't want to be seen with me."

Roth grabbed his hand and Jacob almost gasped, strange and rare as it was. Roth smirked, though, and asked, "You want me to hold your hand too?"

Jacob shook his hand free. "Don't laugh."

"Fine. If it will keep you happy, dear boy, I will take you out." He moved a little closer, not quite cuddling, but not keeping the casual distance he usually did. "Where do we step out first?"

"Uh." Jacob hadn't planned this far ahead. He'd expected Roth to throw him out, actually. "Aleck wants to go to Flux next week on 18+ night—you can meet us there?"

Roth smiled, quick. It was there, then it was gone. "Done."


	9. BTSTU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the danger passed, he pushed up his bedroom window and whisper-yelled, "What the hell are you doing!?" 
> 
> Leering, swinging one leg back and forth from his perch in the oak tree outside Freddy's bedroom, Jacob replied, "Sneaking in your window."

Freddy issued a frightened, frankly undignified wail. Then a hiss: _"Jesus!"_

"Fred?" That was his dad, calling him from the foot of the stairs. "You all right?"

"I'm fine!" He was not fine. His heart was thumping so hard and fast he felt like he was choking on it. "I just thought I saw…a ghost?" _What?_

"A what?"

"I thought I saw a mouse!" Freddy corrected. "I thought I saw a mouse. It wasn't one, though!"

His dad didn't respond, but after a moment: "OK then." 

Freddy waited a few seconds, listening intently in case suspicion drove his father up the stairs to investigate this fairly obvious lie. (Their old place in the city always had mice in the winter, and while Freddy startled whenever he spotted one scurrying across the room, he rarely yelled.) After the danger passed, he pushed up his bedroom window and whisper-yelled, "What the hell are you doing!?" 

Leering, swinging one leg back and forth from his perch in the oak tree outside Freddy's bedroom, Jacob replied, "Sneaking in your window." Freddy's dad had been able to lower his offer on the house a smidgen because of said oak tree: it and a few of its siblings were too close to the house and liable to damage the house in a big storm. He'd never gotten around to removing them, though, which is how Freddy found himself in this situation.

"Why? Seriously, why? You could come in the front door," Freddy snapped, motioning toward the front of the house. "You could skip the whole impromptu visit entirely and just text me, Jacob."

"Where's the fun in that?" If Jacob noticed Freddy was angry, he didn't show it. He dropped a handful of acorns to the ground, no longer needing them to pelt at Freddy's window. "Watch out; I'm coming in." 

Freddy sighed, tried to recenter. Reminded himself that having your crush climb a tree outside your bedroom window at night was the thing teenage dreams were made of. He stood aside and watched as Jacob shimmied along a high branch, hands above his head, then swung into the window like it was nothing.

"Cool tree," he commented, brushing himself off inside Freddy's room.

"What are you doing here?"

"Inviting you out," Jacob replied with a sapid smile. "We're going to 18+ night at Flux. Come with us."

Freddy definitely did not want to go. He was tired, he was wearing sweatpants, he was not in the mood to go to the city and get jostled around by a bunch of sweaty drunk people under flashing lights. But he knew this wasn't a good enough reason—not for the likes of Jacob Frye—so he tried another angle.

"I'm not 18." 

"You can use my fake."

"Oh, the fake that got sniffed out by the lady at the tattoo place immediately?" Freddy inferred, nodding in feigned encouragement. "That one?"

"It's a new one. A better one…here." Jacob unpocketed his wallet and fished out a state driver's license for some 22-year-old named Wade Lynton.

Freddy took it and looked it over. "This doesn't look at all like me."

"Sure it does!" Jacob flicked the ID with his finger. "He's a young white man with brown hair."

"He has really terrible acne."

"Right, and you're a success story. He's the 'before' picture; you're the 'after,'" Jacob explained, slapping Freddy on the arm. Freddy narrowed his eyes, uncertain. "If anyone asks, just tell them you use Proactiv."

Pivoting, Freddy tried, "Don't you want this? You won't be able to drink if you go in with your own ID." He tried to hand the card back.

"I don't need to. I just took some molly, so." He shrugged.

Freddy was running out of excuses. He could see the timeline of his night stretching out in front of him, and he was increasingly sure that it involved going to that stupid club. Even so, he gave it another shot: "I don't even like dancing."

"Shut up, Freddy, everyone likes dancing," Jacob retorted. He pushed the proffered driver's license away. "It's just some people think they're bad at it. And you know what the solution to that is?" Jacob motioned at himself, a twisting two-handed flourish from his head to his hips. "A good dance partner."

Freddy looked from Wade Lynton's driver's license to the clock on his bedside table. It was 8:00 p.m. It was 8:00 p.m. on a _Thursday_ , actually. He looked from the clock to Jacob, who was bouncing on the balls of his feet. 

Momentarily distracted, Freddy squinted at Jacob's lips. "Hold on, are you wearing glitter?" 

"Yep."

With no warning, Jacob tilted, slid his arms over Freddy's shoulders, and caught him in a kiss. Freddy had no time to dodge it, no time to reciprocate—he just stood there, eyes fluttering shut, inhaling sharply through his nose as Jacob dragged his lips across Freddy's.

It was over as soon as it started, Jacob leaning out and rubbing a thumb along the edge of Freddy's lip, Freddy staring at him in open-mouthed shock.

"And now so are you," Jacob said.

Freddy struggled to find Jacob's meaning, the comment about glitter eons away. He'd passed a significant life event in the meantime, after all: he'd had his first kiss. Did it still count if it was under the guise of transferring some glittery lipgloss from one mouth to the next? It had to. It did.

"Well?" Jacob prompted with no indication that he'd just hoisted this flirtatious friendship to the next level. 

Freddy swallowed, throat tight. "Uh." He jerked a thumb toward his closet. "What should I wear?"  
  


* * *

  
"Jacob, look at me. Look at me."

"Hi, Ned," Jacob cooed, turning his head to the side. The group was working their way to the front of the line outside Flux, and for the past ten minutes Jacob had been clinging to Aleck, arms around his middle and face in his chest. Aleck, for his part, appeared unaffected by this—he absently patted Jacob's head with one hand while scrolling on his phone with the other.

"How much water will you drink?"

"Mmm—eight ounces per hour."

Ned asked, "Did you take any supplements?" Jacob shook his head. "Jacob. I gave you that RaveBOX."

"It was confusing!" Jacob whined. Aleck grunted a bit as Jacob tightened his hold. "There were like 100 pills in that thing! How are you supposed to enjoy my roll if I'm taking 100 pills, Ned?"

Ned raised his hands in concession. They were nearing to the front of the line now, so Freddy dug out his wallet.

"You're a good dealer, Ned," Jacob whispered. "Because you care. Also, Aleck, you smell very excellent these days." 

"Thank you," Aleck replied, sounding genuinely pleased. "New aftershave." How Jacob could pick out Aleck's smell over the veritable cloud of women's perfume they were standing in, Freddy had no idea.

"I like it. Agnes? Cute dress. Freddy?" Freddy glanced up from where he was slipping Jacob's fake ID out of his wallet. Jacob opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, then settled on giving Freddy a really fervent thumbs up. 

Aleck and Jacob went in first, using their real IDs and getting big Xs drawn on their hands. Ned and Agnes were next with fakes, and Freddy brought up the rear. He'd spent some time memorizing Wade Lynton's details—address, birthday, star sign, et cetera. Even though Ned and Agnes had passed through with no problem, Freddy's chest constricted with fear as he handed over Wade's driver's license.

An eternity passed as the bouncer looked at the ID, then at Freddy, then back at the ID. Freddy patiently held out the cash for the cover charge, hoping that confidence was key to getting in.

The bouncer took Freddy's money and gave him the driver's license back. Freddy was walking forward to get a wristband when the bouncer stopped him, said, "Hey, wait a minute."

Freddy turned to face the bouncer, stomach churning. Which would give him away quicker: meeting his eyes or _not_ meeting his eyes?

The bouncer pressed on: "I've gotta ask, man, do you use some kind of medicated face wash or something?"

He tried to play it cool, but couldn't quite stifle a relieved little laugh that bubbled out of him. "Uh, yeah." The club worker inside the foyer was already fitting a wristband on him. "Proactiv."

Inside, with one stress behind him, Freddy was facing another: his first nightclub. The room was huge and pulsing—bass line rattling in his sternum, the room so hot he couldn't get out of his jacket fast enough. They were there supposedly early, before the main push of people would arrive, but the room already looked packed to Freddy. A sea of bodies undulated on the dance floor, pink and indigo lights fanning over them.

Aleck and Jacob rushed toward the dance floor while Ned broke off in a different direction, looking to unload the rest of his molly. With some pointing and shouting, Agnes indicated she was heading to the bar, and Freddy decided to follow her. He'd walked out the front door of his house to lie his way into a club and hang out with a drug dealer—if his dad found out about either of those things he'd kill him, so why not go all in with some underage drinking?

Agnes effortlessly bumped through the people swarming the bar, forcing some offended-looking patrons aside to accommodate her girth. She twisted to look at Freddy and asked, "What do you want?"

There were so many backlit bottles on the other side of the bar, their labels too far away to read—he had no idea where to start. Freddy had a feeling Agnes would be a good guide though, so he just replied, "Whatever will get me very drunk for very little money?" 

Agnes smiled wider than he'd ever seen her smile. She grabbed Freddy and hauled him forward, accidentally bumping a girl in a yellow dress off her stool in the process. He tried to apologize to the girl's retreating back as she stomped away but, hey, free stool.

Cue the next first of the evening: Freddy's first bottom-shelf tequila shots.

"I'm glad you're here, Freddy!" Agnes was saying, slapping his back as he coughed through the burn of sour liquor in his throat. "Jacob wasn't sure you'd come."

"Yeah, neither was I. I don't really like dancing, which is why—" he motioned at the shots lined up in front of him, then threw back another. It still burned, but it went down a little easier than the first.

"You know," Agnes said, sounding pensive even as she shouted, "Jacob says he doesn't like dancing either and that he only tags along because he likes to take MDMA and watch the walls breathe. But we're pretty sure that's a lie." Apparently Jacob had hid his Just Dance secret well. Freddy opted to smile impartially at that information and take another shot.

Agnes paid for a water for Jacob and a Shirley Temple for Aleck. "I'm gonna go find them. You coming?"

"Just a minute." Freddy flagged down the bartender and ordered two more shots, and Agnes cheered him on as he bolted them down. "OK, I'm ready." 

Agnes forged ahead onto the dance floor, bulldozing through the crowd of dancers. They shouted and glared in her wake, but Agnes either didn't notice or didn't care. Eventually they found Aleck and Jacob. They were in the middle of a really uncoordinated Kid 'N Play, not quite able to keep their raised ankles together as they hopped in a circle, jostling the people around them. Agnes thrust their drinks between them then started to sway, holding her own cup high.

Aleck joined her, mouth chasing the straw around his pink mocktail as he struggled to dance and drink simultaneously. Jacob didn't have the same problem. He unscrewed the cap of his water, downed it (some of it dribbling down his chin and throat) then threw the bottle behind him.

"Why'd you do that?!" Freddy said, motioning to where Jacob's water bottle had just disappeared into the throng of dancers. That was a mistake though, because it got Jacob's attention. And he looked…hungry.

Freddy stilled, unable to move as he watched Jacob draw near. Jacob was smirking wolfishly, leading with his hips, and when he was practically pressed against Freddy, he leaned in to say, "Do what I do." 

He started a two step and Freddy matched him, tracking the beat. One foot in, then out. Other foot: in, out. He wasn't quite as coordinated as Jacob, but Freddy did his best to mirror him in more than footwork—bending his knees slightly, rolling his shoulders. Jacob stepped around Freddy and bumped their hips together, just like Freddy had seen him do with Evie back when they were cleaning up the remnants of Starrick's party. Jacob disappeared from view to bump butts, then spun back into Freddy's peripheral to bump his other hip.

Freddy laughed. This was all right. This was good. In the back of his mind, he knew the tequila had kicked in and was likely responsible for him feeling so warm and light-headed and OK with all of this. But he also knew he'd rather be having tipsy fun than sober anxiety, and so he played Jacob's game with gusto. 

Jacob slid back in front of Freddy, leaning in and out. Freddy did the same (backward when Jacob went backward, forward when Jacob came forward) but Jacob corrected him with a hand on his shoulder. They leaned together, rolling a bit—chests, stomachs, hips—Jacob keeping Freddy close with a hand knotted in his shirt. 

Jacob slotted one knee between Freddy's and circled his hips. Closer, closer, Freddy following the motion, Jacob's fingers finding Freddy's waistband and tugging him flush against him. And—Freddy's breath hitched—oh. _Oh._ That was Jacob's half-hard cock, wasn't it? There. Pressed against him. Freddy's breath shuddered raggedly on the exhale, and he hoped it was lost to the noise and the lights and Jacob's MDMA high.

There was a lull in the thrumming bass as one song was mixed into the next. Jacob put his lips to Freddy's ear and, breath hot, murmured, "Is this OK?"

Freddy nodded. It made Jacob's lips catch on the whorl of his ear, made Freddy want to keep him there. His head listed to the side, and Jacob took the hint—he mouthed down Freddy's neck, sucking his skin between his lips, and finished with a playful bite on the shoulder. Freddy pushed Jacob's hair out of his face when he came back up, a few damp strands left sticking to his temples. Jacob leaned their sweating foreheads together, and Freddy wanted to kiss him—so much, so much—but he was struggling for air as it was. If he made it any harder to breathe, he'd suffocate. (Though he'd probably love it.)

With their thighs locked together, Freddy continued to follow Jacob's lead, alternating between making circuits and rolling their hips side to side in a tight arc. They gyrated in time, half a beat slower than most of the people thrashing around them. Freddy's dick took interest somewhere along the way, straining against his jeans. Jacob rocked against it with relish, chewing on his lip, making Freddy shiver whenever he got the angle just right.

Jacob lifted Freddy's hands by the wrists, then flattened Freddy's palms against his shoulders and started guiding them down, down. Freddy obeyed, feeling Jacob's muscles work under his fingers as Jacob dragged them along his chest, his stomach. For a delirious moment, he thought Jacob was maneuvering Freddy's hands to his crotch, but he steered them to his hips instead.

Freddy dug his fingertips in and Jacob's nails bit into Freddy's wrists. His hips stuttered, grinding down deliberately against Freddy's thigh. They were moving with the beat but—did this even count as dancing? This was dry humping. That's all this was.

Freddy glanced up and saw Jacob's eyes fixed intently on his mouth. He gave Freddy one last searching, hazy look and then—he was gone. No, not gone. Jacob was right in front of him, his back arched like a bow as Maxwell Roth bore down on him in a greedy, savage kiss.

Roth's eyes were open as he locked lips with Jacob, watching Freddy for a reaction.

Freddy looked around for Aleck or Agnes, but he couldn't spot them. He faltered for a second, then headed for the exit. As he passed by Jacob and Roth, he could just make out Jacob's voice saying, "You said you couldn't make it!"

Freddy rushed for the main doors—slipping on spilled drinks, elbowing people a little harder than necessary when they didn't move out of his way. He escaped the club after a couple of minutes, realizing too late that he'd left his coat behind. He was about to turn back and get it when he spotted Ned standing against the wall, smoking a cigarette. He waved Freddy over.

"How's business?" Freddy asked casually, like he wasn't sporting a flagging hard-on or gritting his teeth against a tidal wave of disappointment and embarrassment and fury. Fucking Roth. Fucking  _Jacob_.

"Sold out. Love 18+ nights—everyone who can't drink wants to get their hands on something else once their pre-game buzz wears off," Ned told him. He smiled coolly, genuinely, and Freddy felt a fraction of anger drain out of him. There was something infectious about Ned's even keel. "What are you doing out here?"

 _Fleeing_ , Freddy thought. But in lieu of the truth, he said, "Just getting some air. It's hot in there."

"Sure is…especially with the way you and Jacob were dancing," Ned replied with a dry snicker. He ashed his cigarette. "I saw you. You look good together."

Freddy rubbed his arms, the heat from his mortified blush doing little to fend off the cold. "Did you also see Roth?"

Ned cocked his head. "No? I thought he couldn't make it." 

"Oh, he made it," Freddy spat. It came out harsher than he intended, all the gloom flooding back in an instant.

Ned surveyed the street and took a drag on his cigarette, eyebrows constricting. "Look," he said, exhaling smoke. "I'm not much for touchy-feely talk, but Jacob wouldn't do what he's doing if he knew he was hurting you. He's over the moon about you, he's just an idiot. …Oh come on, don't shake your head—he flirts with you non-stop."

"He doesn't mean it," Freddy muttered.

Ned rolled his eyes. "Why would you think that? On what planet does a boy who steers every interaction into flirtation not have a crush? Nobody's self-conscious enough to think that way, Freddy, not even you."

As much as Freddy wanted those puzzle pieces to fit together, he refused to believe it. Which is why he replied, "He just likes to make me uncomfortable."

"Maybe," Ned admitted. "But you don't see behind the scenes, like when we're all out together and he's tuned out, texting you. Or—or how he drops you into conversation like he can't help himself." Ned put on a breathless voice and cooed, "'Freddy has shoes like those.' 'Did you know Freddy is in basketball _and_ track?' 'Freddy told me he read a study that says students are given five times too much homework.'"

"Three times too much," Freddy corrected under his breath.

"Whatever. The point is he's obsessed with you and it's making the rest of us nuts. Uh…no offense."

Obsessed. Over the moon. Freddy felt the suggestion push back against the current of shame and disappointment he'd ridden out of the club. But this didn't fix the problem, really. "And what about Roth?"

Ned sighed, waved a gloved hand dismissively. "Forget Roth. Jacob's with him because he's always been with him."

Freddy considered that, then asked, "I can't tell—is that supposed to _boost_ my confidence?" 

"It should," Ned replied, steadfast. "They're not going anywhere. Tell me, have you ever been with someone who's quite a bit older than you?"

Freddy shook his head. He'd never "been with" anyone, though he didn't say so.

Ned continued, "Right, well it always plays out about the same. You like them. You want to impress them. You want to be grown up enough for them. And it's only once you're out of their grip that you realize they're actually immature perverts who you never should have gotten mixed up with in the first place."

Freddy let that sink in for a moment, then prompted, "Speaking from experience?"

Ned chuckled. "I told you I didn't do touchy-feely." He dropped his cigarette and put it out with his shoe. "Come on, let me and my recently acquired wad of cash buy you a drink."

"I actually—" _don't want to go back in there_ "—think I've had enough to drink." 

Ned's eyes flickered between Freddy's, interpreting. "Some food then, somewhere nearby? Go grab your coat; I'll text the others to let them know where we are."

Freddy sighed, tension draining out of his shoulders. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll be right back."  
  


* * *

  
When Freddy got word he was to meet the basketball team at the Kew Park court at 9:00 p.m. on Friday, he had a hunch what was to come. That hunch was confirmed when he found himself and the other players new to the roster gathered on one side of the midcourt line. On the other side stood Starrick, Starrick's smirking chums, and a bunch of the other players in their final year. 

"So glad you kids could make it!" Ferris boomed, rubbing his hands together. "Three years ago, all of us seniors were standing where you freshmen are today. And soon you'll look back on what's about to happen and understand its significance in building…trust. Brotherhood. And when you're seniors, you'll pass this tradition down to incoming freshmen."

Starrick spoke next. "You're about to take part in an old Animus Eagles ritual." He paused for effect, smirking. "The Run in the Raw."

Barely audible over the seniors' raucous cheering, one of the freshmen groaned, "You can't be serious."

"What's that, Morris?" Kaylock spat, face smiling but stance threatening. "Think you're too good for the Run in the Raw? Better than your classmates? Better than us?"

Morris backed down, shaking his head. 

"You will all strip down and run to the lake and back," Starrick explained. "Except you, Abberline. You have to make up for lost time and for years on an opposing team. You run to the power station and back."

Even the freshmen, all about to be subjected to the same humiliation, snickered at Freddy's sentence. The power station was twice as far as the lake was, and in the opposite direction. They meant for him to streak for almost two miles, all told.

"No more dallying, boys," Starrick said, clapping his hands. "Strip!"

To the accompaniment of wolf whistles and calls of "take it off!" trom the seniors, all of the new players began casting off their layers, exposing themselves to the empty park and chill November air without further questions. Well, all of the new players except one.

"What's the problem, Abberline?" Ferris called from his side of the center line.

"I'm not doing this," he told them. It came out flat but he felt a thrill rush through him as he said it. It had been too damn long since Freddy stood up for himself, and that was going to change. Right now. Speaking to the rest of the group, he added, " _None_ of you should do this."

The seniors chortled. "Why?" Millner asked, speaking for the first time since they got there. "Something you don't want us to see?" Predictably, this set off a jeering chorus of "ooooh!"

"No," Freddy replied, crossing his arms to hide the way his hands shook. This was the truth—he was no worse off than the crew of lanky, zitty freshmen standing around him, some of them barely knocking at puberty's door. "I've just had a long, stupid week and tonight, I'm drawing the line. This is ridiculous. It's not meant to build trust; it's meant to put new players in their place."

He'd had it up to here with Starrick and the other bastards populating this school, this suburb. He'd had it up to here with people telling him half-truths and bold lies and leading him around on a leash because they didn't think he had anything better to do.

"You can't just jerk people around like this!" Freddy said. "Just because you think you're so—so _cool_ and _experienced_ doesn't mean you get to take advantage of other people. It's not fair!"

Freddy was shouting. Freddy was shouting and his teammates had slowed their stripping to observe, some of them with only their hats and jackets off, others about half-nude already. He got the feeling like he was off topic.

"This isn't a quirky tradition," he continued, "it's a humiliating joke. I already made your goddamn team. I don't need to prove anything to you by streaking through a city park in the middle of November, all right?" Freddy took a deep breath to steady himself. "I'll see you all at practice."

He turned and started marching across the court in the direction of the footpath.

"I admire your pluck, Abberline!" Starrick called as Freddy got farther and farther away. "But no one said this was optional."

Freddy picked up the sounds of approaching footsteps a moment too late. A pair of hands—Kaylock's—caught Freddy's arms and pinned them to his back. Ferris, meanwhile, began picking at Freddy's clothes. He unzipped his jacket, then started tearing at the buttons on the flannel Freddy wore underneath.

Here's the thing about growing up the bookish, introverted son of a burly inner city cop: you get forced into a lot of junior police training. When he was younger, Freddy used to cry and beg to get out of the classes. He wasn't a natural fighter. He thought the teachers were scary. He'd rather spend his Saturdays hanging around his grandpa's shop learning about clocks than in a classroom full of girls (and it was only ever girls) learning self defense.

Later, Freddy would look back on this and see the irony of needing his close combat training in a public park in a rich suburb—but not once in the urban environment his dad was afraid Freddy wasn't tough enough for. 

It wasn't quite as elegant or practiced as in classes, when his faux-assailants came at him with very particular moves that had very particular counter-moves, but Freddy got the job done all the same. He stomped his heel hard on Kaylock's toes, once, twice, until Kaylock loosened his grip. Freddy freed one arm and used it elbow Kaylock square in the stomach. He wheezed but didn't topple, so Freddy bent forward and directed his elbow up at Kaylock's face, throwing all his weight behind it and sending Kaylock sprawling.

Undeterred by his ally's absence, Ferris seized Freddy by the collar of his shirt with one hand, raising the other for a punch. Freddy tried to dodge the hit and failed, grunting as Ferris' knuckles connected with his temple, missing his glasses by a lucky millimeter. Between the splitting pain and swimming vision, Freddy couldn't for the life of him recall what to do with a fist in his collar. He settled on mirroring Ferris' move and smacking him open handed against the ear a couple of times to disorient him. He dragged Ferris closer and finished him off a dirty, if logical, move: by kicking him hard in the groin.

Freddy stumbled backward a few feet to see that Kaylock had recovered and was looking furious, flushed through the face all the way up to his shaved scalp. He took a step toward Freddy, fists up, and Freddy snarled, "Don't you fucking touch me!"

To his utter surprise, it worked. Kaylock stilled, reconsidered. Instead of coming for Freddy, he turned toward Ferris, who was doubled-over, labored breaths clouding the cool air.

Freddy glanced back at his teammates, who stared mutely at him in their various states of dress and undress. Then he bolted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have posted this in the notes last time, but in my haste to get you an overdue update I blanked. Anyway, in case you missed it: [a shamelessly romcommy Jacob x Freddy fic I posted on Valentine's Day](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6002247).


	10. Talk Is Cheap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In sixth grade, Jacob's English teacher taught him grammar. Or…she attempted to teach him. Grammar was finicky, laden with conflicting rules. Every quiz, every memorization drill resulted in a bunch of near-misses that Jacob would contest. Like any detestable English teacher, this one had a lot of favored idioms and quotes, including, "It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content warning:** A snippet of Jacob's early relationship with Roth is in the first section of the chapter, and in it Jacob is well and truly underage.

In sixth grade, Jacob's English teacher taught him grammar. Or…she attempted to teach him. Grammar was finicky, laden with conflicting rules. Every quiz, every memorization drill resulted in a bunch of near-misses that Jacob would contest. Like any detestable English teacher, this one had a lot of favored idioms and quotes, including, "It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important."

For years Jacob and his classmates parroted this and her other sayings back and forth, an inside joke shared by hundreds and truly funny to few. But it was now, so many years later, that Jacob got it. Saw how the little things—just a few little things in a row—can make a big difference and lead to a big move.

The first little thing was a game of Kings Cup.

Jacob drew the two of hearts. He pointed the card at Aleck and said, "You." Aleck, who was already flushed and grinning woozily on account of everyone using their turns to make him drink, simulated taking a little green man off his can before he sipped from it.

Ned drew the six of spades. "Dicks," he announced, and he and the rest of the guys drank.

Agnes drew a Jack. "OK, green man rule is out," she said while wedging her card under the tab of the beer can in the center of the table. "And we're...switching hands. Righties, drink with your left hand. Lefties, drink with your right."

They turned to watch Freddy, who was neither switching his drinking hand nor taking his turn to draw a card. He'd been like this all night. Quiet, spaced out. Someone had made a joke that Freddy's "basketball injury" (a bruise curling around the edge of his eye socket, up his temple, and disappearing under a beanie he refused to take off) might be affecting his noggin. Jacob thought there was truth in that—just not in the way they'd meant it.

"Freddy, your turn."

"Oh, right." Freddy reached forward and slid a card from the circle, careful not to break it. "It's a ten. What's that again?"

"Never Have I Ever," the group chorused, everyone holding up five fingers. Freddy slipped his card under the beer tab then mimicked them, an elbow on the table.

The game of King's Cup came in a lot of shapes and sizes, but one constant among everyone's differing house rules was a card that kicked off a round of Never Have I Ever. Jacob and his friends knew each other well enough that little fact discovery rose from their contests at this point (it usually devolved quickly into personal, embarrassing, ultra-specific prompts). But tonight there was someone new at the table to get to know: Freddy.

"You get to go first," Agnes told Freddy.

"Uhh." Freddy thought about it a second, flaring and narrowing his long fingers. "OK, never have I ever been walked in on while masturbating."

While Jacob and Aleck each put a finger down and drank, Ned chuckled and said, "You just dove right in."

"Isn't that the point of the game?" Freddy asked, eyes darting around the table.

"I think most people work up to that," Aleck told him. "I start small, like: never have I ever lost a phone." Jacob and Agnes lower a finger each, then drink.

Jacob came up from his beer and said, "No, I'm liking Freddy's speed. Um…never have I ever repurposed a common household item as a sex toy." Agnes and Ned each put a finger down.

"Battery-powered toothbrush," Agnes confessed, pointing at herself. She pointed at Ned and repeated, "Battery-powered toothbrush?"

"You know it," he replied, easy. "Let's see. Never have I ever…fantasized about someone else in this room." Ned said this with a cruel little smirk in Jacob's direction, like he knew.

Jacob narrowed his eyes but put a third finger down. Freddy dropped a finger too, turning remarkably pink as he did so and trying to shield it with his beer.

Agnes was next. "Never have I ever…" she wiggled in her chair a bit as she tried to figure out an angle. "Never have I danced dirty with someone in this room."

Jacob and Freddy both dropped a finger, Freddy adding, "That felt a little deliberate."

Agnes smiled, shameless. "It was."

It was Freddy's turn again. "Never have I ever watched porn with someone else." No one had to lower a finger.

Ned tilted his head at Jacob and said, "Not even you?"

"What?" Jacob snapped. "I haven't done _everything_. Jesus."

Aleck interrupted them with, "Never have I ever been kissed."

"Wait wait wait," Agnes said, "that's not true. I saw Claire Knight give you a mistletoe kiss at your parents' Christmas party last year."

"That doesn't count," Aleck replied, but was countered with a tableful of insistent nods. "Fine! Never have I ever been kissed _more than once_."

And there went Jacob's last finger. At least it happened before they trod out old fan favorites like "never have I ever been caught by Pearl Attaway's parents with my face up their daughter's skirt" or "never have I ever set fire to a banquet table at one of my father's academic functions." Jacob took a dutiful swig of his beer. Over the rim of his can, Jacob saw Freddy put a previously-lowered finger back up.

Wait. Did tha…oh. Oh _no._ Freddy caught Jacob watching him, then immediately looked away.

Jacob took smaller and smaller sips when it was his turn to drink, staving off drunkenness through the course of a drinking game for the first time in his life. It was Ned's card that popped the tab on the can in the center of the table, and they wrapped the game to try and make some food. Agnes' parents had stocked the fridge and pantry before they left town, so she'd lured them over with the promise of homemade pizza.

Jacob caught Freddy by the wrist before he joined the others in filing out and said, "Hey. Can I talk to you?"

Freddy went pale but nodded. Jacob led them out to Agnes' front porch, the motion-detecting light above them clicking on. The porch looked out over the lawn and the massive salvage yard beyond, the sea of rusting vehicles barely visible as dusk slipped to night.

Freddy leaned against the railing of the porch, the old wood squeaking a little under the pressure. Jacob wanted something to do with his hands, so he produced a half-smoked cigarette from his pack and lit up.

Time to get this over with.

"I'm sorry about the other night."

Freddy glanced Jacob's way and asked, "Which part?" Fair question.

Jacob turned his head to blow smoke away from Freddy before leaning next to him on the railing. "I wouldn't have kissed you if I'd known you hadn't kissed anyone before," he explained. "I just assumed."

He should have figured it out right away, in retrospect. The way Freddy went all rigid…discounting a moment of surprise, that wasn't the reaction you'd expect from a guy who clearly wanted Jacob to kiss him.

Freddy looked bashful again, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Why?"

"What do you mean 'why'? You're a cute boy. You should be—getting all the kisses." He meant it. If there was anyone on the planet who deserved an endless supply of smooches, it was probably Freddy. "Anyway, I'm sorry. I stole that one and I shouldn't have."

Freddy was tugging absently on his hat, pulling it lower over the bruise on his left eye. "What difference does it make?"

Jacob scoffed. "It makes a big difference." Freddy gave Jacob a sidelong glare. "It does! First kisses are supposed to be special."

Freddy huffed a little laugh. "You sure about that?" He turned his gaze back to the salvage yard. I thought they were supposed to be awkward and sloppy."

"Maybe," Jacob conceded. "That comes later for sure—first time having sex is awkward and there's no point in trying to salvage that. But first kisses can be nice. They _should_ be nice, if one of you's done it before." Jacob took a drag of his cigarette and watched Freddy twist his hands.

"Was yours nice?" Freddy asked.

Jacob thought about it. As a kid, then as a preteen, Jacob was more interested in proving he was the best at every sport and every backyard game than he was in putting his lips on someone else's. He'd been thrown headlong into the thing at age fourteen when he met Maxwell Roth at a graduation party. Roth had followed Jacob upstairs and locked them in a bathroom together. Jacob waited for the kiss to come, but Roth walked him back against the sink and then kneeled at his feet instead.

At the time, Jacob's understanding of sexual encounters were that they moved in a certain order, and he wasn't sure how he'd gotten to third base before even touching first. He asked Roth about it after he'd come, voice wobbling as much as his legs, and it made Roth grin. He stood to give Jacob a rough, perfunctory kiss, then started guiding Jacob down to his knees, saying _now you._

So, to answer Freddy's question: "Not really."

"Well, apology accepted," Freddy replied neutrally. "It's just—I'm surprised you apologized for giving me a close mouthed kiss, but not for…"

The porch light clicked off. Jacob waved his hand above his head and it came back on. "For what?" he prompted.

Freddy cracked a smile. "For rubbing your erection on me for like ten minutes."

Jacob snorted. "Well, the kiss was clumsy. But the dancing was A+." Freddy threw his whole head into his responding eyeroll. "I'm serious! I gave you my very best bump and grind. Besides, it's hard to get a boner while on molly, so actually you should be flattered."

"Is that so?"

"Yes." Jacob stubbed out his cigarette and dropped it in the pickle jar full of cigarette butts left by Agnes' mother. "I'm sorry if you didn't like it," he added.

Immediately, Freddy said, "No, it's fine. It was…good."

Jacob pivoted and leaned sideways on the porch rail to get a better look at Freddy. "Want to do it again sometime?"

Freddy opened his mouth to reply, then closed it, blew out a long sigh. "Actually," he said, sounding a little surprised with himself, "no."

Jacob hadn't expected that. His brain stuttered over it—no? why? since when? what did he do wrong?—but Freddy didn't leave him twisting for too long. He straightened up and mirrored Jacob's posture, leaning sideways on the railing.

"I have a crush on you," he said, flat, like it was nothing. Like he didn't get all flustered every time Jacob acted on that assumption and showed Freddy romantic attention. "But I don't want to be led on. So."

Jacob squinted at him. "But I'm…not."

"Really?" Freddy said skeptically and crossed his arms. "What do you call it, then?"

"F-flirting? I like you, Freddy, I'm not leading you on." Jacob felt a little thrill go through him as he said it, something about admitting it—to himself _and_ to Freddy—giving him a rush.

"What about Roth?" Freddy said. "You're dating him."

"I mean, sort of." Roth had made a minimal effort at meeting Jacob at places outside the bedroom over the past week, but not much else had changed. "We're not really…exclusive."

Freddy looked hopeful at that, then shook his head like he was trying to clear it away. "Well, I guess…I guess I'm exclusive." He chewed his lip, and even in the dark Jacob could see he was stagger breathing—like he was in pain and trying to tough it out. "I'm sorry I can't be as _evolved_ as the two of you but…look, I'm not telling you to choose me. I'm just telling you I don't like to share."

Jacob didn't want to be shared (gang bang fantasies notwithstanding). But, thinking of Roth's words, he didn't want to be kept in a cage either. Did he?

The light clicked off again, and Jacob waved to turn it back on.

He tried to sound neutral instead of coy when he said, "I like when you stand up for yourself."

With a dark chuckle, Freddy replied, "I'm turning over a new leaf."

"Yeah? Is that how you got this?" Jacob asked, drawing a line on his own face where Freddy's showcased a bruise. Freddy stiffened. "Come on, Freddy. What happened?"

Freddy sighed. He fixed his eyes on a point over Jacob's shoulder and asked, "Have you ever heard of the Run in the Raw?"

"No," Jacob told him. "But I have a feeling I know what it is."

"Well, I didn't want to do it. Hazing is stupid and childish and not worth anyone's time. So they tried to force me to do it. That's all."

Jacob nodded, sympathetic. "So is that when you 'went ballistic, fought off Starrick's cronies, shouted them down when they tried to come back, then bounced'?"

Freddy's chin jerked down and he looked straight at Jacob, who smirked. "How did you…?"

"Oh, people who were there texted Henry, who told Evie, who told me. Apparently everyone's talking about what a fucking psychopath you are," Jacob said, beaming proudly. Freddy shook his head in disbelief, cheeks hollowed. "Congratulations, Freddy. You've ascended from quiet new kid to outcast."  

Freddy made an anguished noise, tugging self-consciously on the hat. Jacob was glad to have gotten the scoop on Freddy's run-in _before_ he saw the resulting bruise. If he hadn't been forewarned, Jacob might've been the one who went ballistic.

"For what it's worth," Jacob said, low, "I think it's fantastic. And, no leading-on intended, pretty hot."

Freddy made the anguished noise again, louder this time.  
  


* * *

  
The second little thing was a yuppie dinner party.

Jacob got the OK from Cecily to join Roth for an overnight in a nearby college town. Roth had a bunch of friends there attending grad school and every year they got together for a Friendsgiving on the Saturday after the fact.

Taking a cue from what he saw people do at grownup parties on TV, Jacob bought a bottle of wine and presented it to their host, Hattie, when they arrived. She frowned down at it for a second before recovering and asking to take their coats.

Roth knew practically everyone there; people flocked to him with cries of, "Maxwell! How are you?" Jacob tried to keep everyone's names and areas of study and occupations straight as Roth introduced them, but it was no use. He settled on standing silently next to Roth, half tuned into conversations about Christmas travel plans and the selfie as an art form and the best era of _SNL_.

That strategy held until dinner, at which point Hattie directed her guests one by one to assigned seats. Jacob ended up between a hulking guy named Benjamin who had gone all in on "lumbersexual" and a brunette named Beatrice who wore a fussy cocktail hat. Roth was seated all the way at the other end of the table, almost out of sight.

Over the clatter of people dishing up curry-stuffed delicata squash and seitan roast, Hattie got her guests' attention by clinking her fork against her wine glass.

"Thank you, everyone, for coming! Now, you don't have to stop eating, but let's go around the table and introduce ourselves and, per tradition, tell us something that has you angry." Jacob snickered, but no one joined him. "I'll start," Hattie said when she was done hitting Jacob with a glare. "I'm Hattie, and I'm angry about the influence of big pharma in driving stigma around chronic disease."

They carried on like this, guests introducing themselves and laying bare their anger over things that, for the most part, didn't sound made up—like beauty brands' continued use of microbeads despite environmental effects, or discrimination against atheists when it came to holding elected office. Jacob tried to think of something smart to say, something civic, but came up blank. All he could think of was, _I'm Jacob and I'm angry we're doing this exercise._

He never thought he'd appreciate his mother's insistence that everyone say some sappy thing they were thankful for at their Thanksgiving dinners. He didn't think there was anything more intolerable, and he was wrong.

When it was his turn he muttered, "I'm Jacob and I'm angry I can never find a crop top in my size," then took a long, humorless swig from his wineglass.

Small talk didn't fare much better.

"So, Jacob, what are you reading?" Beatrice inquired.

"Uhh…" Jacob looked at the ceiling, trying to remember what book he was supposed to be reading for school (and would inevitably cliffs notes just before the next test). " _A Hundred Years of Solitude_."

Beatrice laughed. She had a fake laugh that sounded like a chime. "Oh, _One Hundred Years of Solitude_ ," she said, correcting him subtly. "That's a good one, if a bit overrated. Though didn't you read it in high school?"

Jacob cocked his head. "I am in high school."

Beatrice gave it a minute longer before turning and talking to the person on her other side. Benjamin picked up where she left off, asking Jacob, "So, you're a senior. Are you excited to vote in your first election?"

"I guess," Jacob replied, shrugging. This sent Benjamin into a long, long sermon about the mixed idealism and indifference endemic in the youth vote and his worries that if things don't go the way late Millennials and early Gen Zers want in the primaries that they won't turn out in the general just like they don't turn out for midterms because _blah blah blah blah…_

"I'm not much for politics," Jacob said loudly, cutting through the lecture.

Benjamin looked so confused by this statement, like he'd never met someone who wasn't invested in politics before in his life. He gave it a second and then, just like Beatrice, turned to talk to the people on his other side. Under normal circumstances, Jacob would insert himself into one of the conversations he was physically closed off from, but tonight he chose to load up on all the weird-textured food from Hattie's vegan, gluten-free dinner spread and wait for it to be over.

Except when it was over and people started moving around the apartment again, Jacob found himself standing in front of Roth and his old friend Chester Swinebourne, listening to them reminisce about their years-ago shared dorm room and all the group sex they had in it. Chester was very flirtatious, touchy in the way that suggested more than a long friendship, and Roth was perfectly open to it. Desperate as Jacob was to leave this party to do something fun and interesting, he wasn't in the mood to get spitroasted by someone named Chester.

Jacob slipped away and into the kitchen, uncorked his forgotten bottle of wine (which was $13—fuck you, Hattie), then poked down the hallway, opening doors.

He let himself into the bedroom where all the guests' jackets were stacked on the bed and flopped down on top of them, crossing his legs at the ankle and looking at his phone. The only message was from a couple of hours before: Freddy confirming that they were taking Sunday off from tutoring. Holiday weekend and all that.

Before he knew what he was doing, Jacob hit "call."

Freddy picked up after a couple of rings. "Jacob," he murmured. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Jacob said. He twisted to rearrange the pillows so he could recline but stay upright enough to drink his wine. "Why do you think something's wrong?"

"Because no one under 30 uses their phone as a phone unless it's an emergency?" Jacob could hear rustling in the background—blankets.

"It's not an emergency. Are you in bed? It's only—" Jacob pulled the phone away from his ear to check the time, "10:00, Freddy."

"If you called to make fun of me, I'm going to hang up." Freddy said this with fondness, but Jacob dropped it anyway.

"I just wanted to talk. I—" _miss you, wish you were here_ "—feel like I haven't seen you forever."

"What, since Wednesday?" Jacob drank his wine, counting back the days. True, that really wasn't that long, but the longest Jacob had gone without seeing Freddy since they met was final bell on Friday to tutoring on Sunday afternoon. Twice as much time had passed since Wednesday when Jacob had seen Freddy last, not to mention that all their conversations for the past week had been stilted, strange even though they pretended they weren't.

Freddy asked, "Do you ever watch _Wife Swap_?"

"Of course. You know I love trash TV."

"You know how at the end of the episode they reunite the swapped families, and the husbands and wives go rushing toward each other, bawling like they've been separated for months and tortured within an inch of their lives? Even though it's been, like, a week of staying at a shitty Airbnb?" Freddy yawned. "This is like that."

Jacob huffed a laugh. "Are you saying I'm your wife? Your…melodramatic calc wife?" Freddy made a sound of assent. "If you're going to make fun of me, I'm going to hang up."

"Sorry," Freddy said. Jacob could practically hear his smile. "What're you doing?"

"I'm at a stuck-up party, hiding in a bedroom," Jacob explained, seeing the parallels with Freddy's long ago house party only as he laid them out. "Will you distract me? Tell me about your day."

"Um…not much happened. Aleck sweet talked me into canvassing with him next week."

"He didn't!" Jacob laughed and it echoed into the wine bottle. "You shouldn't have let him do that, Freddy! Now he's got his claws in and he'll have you doorknocking and volunteering nonstop." Freddy sighed, loud enough for Jacob to hear. "What's his cause this week?"

"New teen clinic. He said we'd just be leaving doorhangers around the neighborhood." Jacob heard Freddy gasp, a small thing. "Oh, that reminds me…are you going to be home at all tomorrow?"

"Yeah, I'm watching Clara in the afternoon. Why?"

"I have something for you. Your birthday gift—it came in the mail today."

Jacob sat up. "You got me a birthday gift?" He looked at the phone, like he might read Freddy's expression by doing so. "Why?"

"What do you mean, 'why'? It was your birthday. You're my friend."

"Right, that makes sense. That checks out." Silence fell between them. Jacob drummed his fingers against the side of the wine bottle and wondered what Freddy was wearing—not in the sexual way. He wondered if Freddy had turned the lamp on his bedside table on or put on his glasses. Was he sitting up or lying down? Were his eyes open, or did he keep them closed, half-awake?

"I should let you get back to sleep," Jacob said.

"No, no. I want to hear about the party. Why's it stuck up?"

Jacob smiled, pinched the phone between his ear and shoulder. "I don't know where to start."

Freddy's voice got closer, like he'd changed positions at the same time. "Just list off everything you've heard people talk about since you've been there."

Jacob hummed his agreement into his wine. "OK, first up: artisanal wheat."

Freddy let out a startled laugh. "What? Stop, I've heard enough."

"No, you asked, so I'm going to keep going!" Jacob strained to remember the conversations he hadn't tuned out. "I heard someone talk about how the rise of stretch fabrics was ruining ready-to-wear fashion."

Jacob was chuckling at Freddy's answering groan when the door swung open. It was Roth, mercifully without Chester. "There you are," Roth said.

A little disappointment shot through Jacob, but he waved a hello then told Freddy, "I've been discovered. I gotta go."

"All right," he replied warmly. "See you tomorrow."

"Bye." Jacob hung up, watched Roth round the corner of the bed and sit down.

"Ready to head out?" he asked. Jacob nodded. They dug up their coats, got bundled up, and walked out to Roth's car. Jacob was still drinking from the wine bottle and wishing he hadn't eaten so much—the alcohol was doing nothing for him. They hit the road.

Holding his hands in front of the vents, wishing for the heat to kick in, Jacob said, "You know, it was my birthday a couple of weeks ago."

Roth leaned an elbow against the car window. It was pitch black outside—Hattie lived out of town, and there were no streetlights on this country road. "Really? I thought it was in December."

"November," Jacob corrected.

"Right. That makes you…eighteen, doesn't it?" Roth asked, vulturous smirk just visible in the lights from the dash.

"It does. Did you get me anything?" he joked. Jacob didn't need presents. He didn't give them often, either, because the only thing worse than no gift was a gift that showed just how little someone understood you. 

Roth dug around in his coat pocket and pulled out a BIC lighter. He held it out in his palm, and Jacob took it. "For me?" he cooed, falsely rapturous. He cradled the lighter against his chest. "That's _so thoughtful_."

"Well, I know blue's your favorite color. So." It wasn't his favorite color, but Roth was probably still joking.  
  


* * *

  
The third little thing was the gift.

Jacob opened the door to Freddy, who looked the same as he left him, except the bruise was almost completely faded away. Jacob had cornered Henry about it last week, asking for more details, and the outlook for Freddy's basketball experience at Animus wasn't good.

Freddy stepped into the entryway, giving Jacob a slight smile. "It's late but," he held out an expertly wrapped gift, all perfect corners and invisible tape. "Happy birthday."

Jacob took it. It felt like a picture frame. "Is this the collage of all your senior photo proofs that I asked for?" he said, holding it up. Freddy motioned for him to open it.

Jacob jabbed his finger through the corner of the paper and tore it off in one. Underneath was a print featuring spiking lines, thick and gray, pinched at the beginning and end. Soundwaves. The imprint at the bottom:

 _Psychic Chasms_ _  
_ _Neon Indian_

Freddy explained, "You said once that it was one of your favorite albums. I didn't know if you had a favorite song on it, so I just picked the title track."

Jacob wanted to run his hands along the lines, but didn't want to smudge the glass of the frame. "This is…really thoughtful," he said, echoing what he told Roth about the lighter, only he meant it this time.

Freddy's mouth twisted, turned down. "You don't like it," he mumbled.

"No, I love it! I do, I'm not pretending. I'm just caught off guard." Jacob pointed at the print and asked, "Did you make this?"

"I didn't. I ordered it online from some people who do, though. They take an audio file and turn it into…this." Jacob stared down at it, reading the imprint over and over again, thinking. "Are you OK?"

"Yeah. Sorry." Jacob glanced up at Freddy, who wore an uncertain look. "Thank you. This is—thank you." He was fighting with the curious sensation that he'd lost his train of thought, or that he had a word, a phrase on the tip of his tongue. "Do you want to stick around? Me and Clara are going to a department store for makeovers in a bit."

Freddy grinned and backed up a step. "I think I'll pass. My dad let me take his car here and I told him I'd bring it right back, anyway." Freddy turned the door handle and added, "But send me a selfie, OK?"

Jacob nodded. "OK."

"I'll see you." Freddy stepped out, closing the door behind him. Jacob stood in the entryway looking at the print, thumbing the edges of the frame. He'd gotten birthday presents from his other friends, and they were all great. Agnes gave him the last couple of parts he needed to fix the N600. Ned gave him an eighth of Grape Ape. Aleck fixed their home printer and reformatted the computer so Cecily would stop demanding that Jacob and Evie figure out what was wrong. But this was different, was better. Was something that hadn't occurred to him to want, but now that he had it he wouldn't trade it for anything else.

Freddy was different, was better. Was something…

Jacob left the gift and the wrapping paper behind before opening the door and jogging down the sidewalk, cement freezing under his stockinged feet.

"Freddy! Hey!" He made it to the curb and leaned down to look through the window, where Freddy glanced up from his glowing phone screen, brow wrinkled.

Jacob motioned for Freddy to lower the window, but Freddy made a crank motion back. "They're not automatic!" Freddy said.

Jacob padded around the front of the car, grunting "ow, ow, ow" as pebbles in the pavement dug into his feet. Freddy rolled down the window and Jacob leaned his arms on the roof of the car, ducking to look Freddy in the eye. "Do you want to go out with me?"

Freddy blinked. "What?"

"Do you want to go on a date with me?" Jacob asked, breathless all of the sudden, a little lightheaded. "And then more dates, probably, on like—an ongoing basis?"

Freddy glanced around the car a little jerkily, then set his phone in the passenger seat. When he turned back to Jacob he was smiling, looking a little dazed. "When?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm dying, dying, dead over Jump-inspired fanart. [Half-pony Jacob by @dacasyo](http://4dcs4.tumblr.com/post/140378468369/twitter-junk-a-jump-super-great-fic-by) and a [collaboration by @ass-ass-in-treehole and @weillschmidtdoodles](http://ass-ass-in-treehole.tumblr.com/post/140778807341/a-scene-from-jump-chapter-4-by-ficthepainaway-a). ♥‿♥


	11. It's Not Really Cold When It Snows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jacob seemed determined to set up a memorable scenario for what he called their "make-up make-out," and all the pressure and the expectation made Freddy a little queasy.

The minutes were ticking down to "FIRST KISS REDO" at "holiday carnival…it's not coming up in autofill but i'll find the address." Jacob had looked fiercely pleased with himself while he plugged the date into Freddy's calendar, all the while explaining how he and Aleck spent a day cross referencing online lists of best first date spots until they determined which one was most romantic, seasonally appropriate, and economically viable.

"Do you consult Aleck before all your dates?" Freddy asked.

Jacob replied, "He insisted." Then he handed the phone back and added, "I think he has a lot riding on this, emotionally."  

Freddy had long ago accepted that he and Jacob were doing the "relationship" "thing" drastically out of order, so Jacob's insistence on a formal start with a date baffled him. Worse than that, it made him anxious. Freddy wanted to lean over and kiss Jacob while they were studying or while they were out with friends (and no one was looking, of course). But Jacob seemed determined to set up a memorable scenario for what he called their "make-up make-out," and all the pressure and the expectation made Freddy a little queasy.

So it was with this feeling of distant nausea that Freddy bundled up and left for their first date. Jacob waited for him on the curb, leaned against the car with his hands in his pockets and a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

"Hey," Jacob said. He looked the same as he always did, greeted Freddy the same as he always did—but this was different. This was…significant.

"Hi." Freddy's gaze dropped to the ground and then, to justify it, he blurted, "I like your boots."

Jacob lifted one foot off the pavement to get a better look at it. His boots were half-laced and scuffed up and Freddy had seen them a hundred times—there was no reason to remark on them now. Bypassing his comment, Jacob told him, "You don't have to be nervous." Freddy sighed. "Really! You've already got the job, this is only a formality."

"Then why not just…get it over with?" Freddy said, taking a hopeful step forward.

Jacob gave him a smile, somewhere between fondness and pity. Reaching up to fiddle with Freddy's scarf, he replied, "Now where's the fun in that?" Freddy rolled his eyes. "First, we are going to ice skate. Then we are going on all the kind of scary, janky fair rides. We are taking a grand tour of all the fried food stands. We are going to play carnival games and I'll try to win you a large stuffed animal but I will probably only win you a very small one, which I hope you don't take personally. And then at the end of the evening," Jacob continued, lowering his voice and pulling Freddy in a little closer, "I'm going to kiss you. I'm going to kiss you until…you completely forget about the other time I kissed you."

There it was again: nausea. Or was it butterflies? Perhaps a bit of both. Freddy cleared his throat and deadpanned, "Does kissing have memory-wipe properties?"

"Only way to find out is to try," Jacob said, shrugging. "Though I may kiss you earlier in the evening if we stumble upon the right combination of atmosphere and timing. On the top of the ferris wheel or something."

"I don't really like heights."

"Well, good thing I wasn't banking on that then, yeah?"

"And you can't just spring it on me," Freddy added, good-humored. "Will you give me a warning?"

"Sure. I'll say, 'Ready, Freddy?'"

As soon as the rhyme left his lips, Jacob lurched upright, eyes twinkling. With forced levity, Freddy drawled, "Oh…you figured that out."

"Whatever." Jacob opened the car door and motioned for Freddy to sit. "Get in the car, grumpy."

Freddy hadn't been to the winter carnival in the city since he was a kid. It was the kind of thing your parents brought you to when you were small, then when you were older you either went with a big group of friends or with the person you were dating—and Freddy had had neither of those since he started high school. He imagined it would look a little smaller and shabbier through teenage eyes, but it was still remarkably grand. All the food and game stands were built to mimic a bavarian village, and every inch of the place was covered in Christmas lights, even strung between buildings overhead. It was prettier than a picture, and all the people and the music distracted him from the anxiety, at least temporarily.

"So," Jacob said, eyeing the endless stretch of not-quite-nondenominational holiday fun. "Where to first? Ice rink?"

Freddy nodded and let Jacob lead the way. They rented their skates and laced them up, then waited with a crowd of people for the Zamboni to stop making its rounds so they could get out themselves. When they were finally given the all-clear, Jacob was halfway across the rink before Freddy had even cleared the doors.

Jacob came back to get him, shaving ice on a harsh hockey stop. "You said you knew how to skate!"

"I do!" Freddy motioned toward his legs—down there, on the ice, unsupported. "I'm skating right now. I'm just not…very good at it." Freddy grimaced as his ankles wobbled tellingly.

Jacob tilted his head, lifting his eyebrows. "That's perfect actually." He reached for Freddy, palms up. "Means I'll have to hold your hands."

Freddy smiled back and took his hands, gloved fingers curling against Jacob's bare ones.

He led Freddy around the rink, letting him hover near the boards just in case. They took it slow until Freddy found his footing. Then, instead of dropping one of Freddy's hands and skating with him side-by-side, Jacob tightened his grip and started skating rapidly backward, dragging a protesting Freddy along. On account of Freddy bending his knees and (maybe) closing his eyes, he wasn't able to warn Jacob before he rammed into a cluster of children. The kids were sent sprawling…and Freddy and Jacob were promptly kicked off the ice.

It wasn't all bad, though. Because once they'd changed back into their shoes and wandered out onto the frozen, snowless grounds, Jacob continued to hold Freddy's hand.

Freddy was giddy with it, grinning and grinning until his cheeks hurt. (And then he kept grinning because a sore face only meant that he wasn't dreaming, which was the setting where he usually found himself holding Jacob's hand.) He wondered if people around them noticed, and what they thought. Were they taking up too much space in the crowd by walking side-by-side? Were they cute? Were they revolting? Were they a mismatch? Was Jacob too handsome for him?

Oh, there it was again: unease eddying in his gut.

Jacob delivered on his promise to play carnival games but failed at winning even a small stuffed animal. He blew a lot of cash on ring toss and lost every round, and Freddy was forced to haul him away before Jacob's angry accusations against the worker for rigging the game escalated into a violent confrontation. They hit the food stands instead, gorging themselves on funnel cake and cocoa and pretzels and hot dogs.

They tried the rides next which, in retrospect, was incredibly stupid.

He and Jacob piled onto the Sizzler, which had Jacob practically in Freddy's lap once it started making its circuits. Jacob was watching him, laughing, hair whipping around, blissfully unaware that all the food plus the anxiety plus the whirling motion of the ride had Freddy's stomach churning in earnest. As soon as the ride stopped Freddy went scrambling out of his seat and toward the fence. With the synth-y accompaniment of "Wonderful Christmas Time" playing over a nearby loudspeaker, Freddy hurled and hurled and—right when he thought he was done—hurled again.

Jacob stood behind him, rubbing small, sympathetic circles into his back. Once Freddy was done losing all his food stand fare, Jacob murmured, "This is…really embarrassing for you." Freddy turned to glare at him, hands still on his knees. "I'm joking," he added hastily. Freddy wiped his mouth.

For the first time that evening, Freddy was 100 percent nausea-free. Even so, when Jacob asked if he wanted to be taken home, he nodded.

Jacob parked in front of Freddy's house and unbuckled his seatbelt. Jacob looked over at him, mouth crooked, and said, "You know I'm not gonna…"

"I know."

Jacob sighed. "I'll take a hug, though?"

He met Freddy on the passenger's side of the vehicle and stepped into his space without hesitation, wrapping his arms around Freddy's shoulders. Freddy squeezed Jacob's waist and dropped his head on his shoulder, trying not to breathe his puke smell everywhere. Jacob pressed his lips into Freddy's hair, not a kiss so much as part of the embrace, and Freddy wondered if he went inside and gargled some mouthwash if Jacob would kiss him then.

He probably would. But now Freddy was thinking like Jacob. Maybe it didn't have to be special—the right combination of satisfying and surprising and flatteringly lit—but he couldn't pretend the moment for kissing wasn't gone.

"Thanks for the date," Freddy said, speaking into Jacob's jacket. He tried not to sound as defeated as he felt, but he had a feeling it didn't work.

"It was a good date," Jacob replied. Freddy laughed feebly, and Jacob insisted, "It was! Best one I've ever been on, upchuck and all." He withdrew, giving Freddy a peck on the forehead. "See you on Sunday?"

Freddy nodded and started up the sidewalk, turning partway to wave at Jacob, who hadn't moved. He was in the same spot when Freddy closed the front door and leaned against it, groaning.

An hour spent watching kissing tutorials on YouTube for _nothing_.  
  


* * *

  
Ask any school administrator why their district is increasing funding for sports but slashing budgets for textbooks, tech, and teacher salaries, and you'll hear some version of the same thing: high school athletes gain lifetime benefits. There are countless psychological and social upsides to playing sports, they'll say. Kids who play on varsity teams have more self-respect. They know more about leadership and teamwork. They get better grades in school, and earn higher salaries when they're out of school.

Freddy had to repeat these platitudes to himself over and over during basketball practice whenever someone jabbed his elbow to ruin his shot. He thought about how he could work themes about overcoming adversity into his college entrance essays every time someone tripped him, yanked him around by his jersey, knocked the wind out of him, kneed him in the thigh to give him a cramp. Imagining some future where this all might benefit him was the only way he could continue to play on a team with a bunch of assholes.

He thought game days would be a welcome respite from it all, but instead he sat and fumed as Starrick and his cronies turned their dirty tactics against the opposing teams. They committed foul after foul, all of which would go ignored by the Animus referees (who, rumor had it, were in Starrick's father's pocket). Meanwhile, the traveling team would get slapped with bogus offensive fouls.

Just two games into the season and already one coach and three players had been kicked off the court for exploding at the refs for their blatant unfairness.

"They want the same thing from you," Henry said, lifting his milkshake but pausing before taking a drink. "You realize that, right?"

Freddy was leaning on his hand and staring down at his plate, no appetite. He thought that once he got a good whiff of the greasy diner, once he got a burger in front of him, that he'd feel hungry. No go. "That they want me to cheat?" Freddy inferred. "Yeah, I know that. Coach B told me if I didn't start _playing to win_ he'd bench me."

Coach B (Coach Billingsworth) was near-sadistic in his love for a violent, unethical game. Freddy wasn't even sure it was a means to an end for him; winning seemed secondary to the joy of getting away with cheating. Freddy added, "How have you been allowed to play clean all these years, by the way?"

"Oh, because I'm the only brown person on the team and kicking me off would look racist," Henry replied, nonchalant. Freddy rolled his eyes. "And what I _meant_ was that they want you to explode."

Freddy should have figured that out. "Brilliant," he grunted.

"They would threaten you or try to beat you up if they knew they could, but that didn't work out last time. So instead they're banking on you snapping at practice," Henry explained. He said it slowly, like he really wanted it to sink in. "You freak out in front of Coach, you get thrown off the team. I don't agree with them, obviously, but…I must admit I admire their strategy."

Freddy flipped the bun from the top of his burger and started picking at the toppings. What a week.  
  


* * *

**  
Today 10:42 AM**

**Jacob** ****  
bring your jacket to lunch  
and your hat  
and your widdle mitties

 **Freddy  
** Why are you always so weird about my gloves?  
And why do you want me to bring outerwear to lunch? You know we're not allowed off campus during break anymore.

Jacob didn't reply. So Freddy did as he asked, piling on his layers after class and sweating while he stood in line for his food. He got to the table but didn't have much time to tuck in before Jacob sat down next to him and started taking all of Freddy's food off his tray.

"You're going to want to speed up," Jacob urged, removing the dishes from his own tray while shoveling food into his mouth. "We're going outside."

"How?" Freddy asked skeptically. "We're locked in, and teachers are watching the doors." This was their school's solution to the most recent (faked) threat of violence: corral everyone in one room at lunchtime.

"Oh ye of little faith," Jacob teased. "Just chow down and be ready to go." Freddy sped up, swirling spaghetti on his fork and swallowing it down when it was only half-chewed.

A minute later, Aleck broke away from the lunch line in a jog. "That's our sign," Jacob said. He grabbed their stacked lunch trays with one hand and Freddy's wrist with the other just as green smoke erupted in the middle of the line. Students scattered everywhere, yelling and gagging as the smoke overtook them. The teacher who monitored the locked fire doors ran into the fray to help.

Jacob dragged Freddy in the direction of the teacher's abandoned post and, just as they reached it, one door swung open. Ned was on the other wide, waving his illegally copied pool key. "Have fun, you two," he said. Jacob gave Ned a playful swat with their lunch trays as they rushed past.

The first snow arrived as it often did: not in a romantic dusting but all at once. Heavy and soggy and bad enough that every school in the county canceled classes…except for Animus, of course. Half the student body was absent and teachers, just as bitter about being denied their day off, were handing out extra credit to the kids who'd braved the snow to come in.

Not unlike the holiday carnival, Freddy experienced heavy snows differently now that he was grown. What once was cause for snow forts and snowball fights was now a reason to skip bathing and wear a duvet around the house. Apparently Jacob hadn't gotten the memo they were too old for outdoor fun, though, because he was charging through the snow at top speed, Freddy stumbling along behind him.

They reached the steep hill at the end of the quad and Jacob dropped Freddy's wrist and held out one of the lunch trays. "I hope you like sledding," he said, smiling.

They squeezed onto their lunch trays and pushed off.

They didn't make it far—the snow was too thick and too soft for them skid along on top of it. It got shoveled up on their trays until they came to a stop. But they ran back to the top of the hill and tried a second time, then a third time, staying in their tracks and making it a little farther with each attempt. They raced each other back up the hill, laughing through their mutual attempts at sabotage, then tried to go down standing on their lunch trays (which was a disaster). Then they made a train—Jacob in front and Freddy in back, legs wrapped around Jacob's middle and head tucked against his neck to shield himself from the snow they kicked up.

They were scaling the hill for the umpteenth time when Jacob said, "I think with a better push-off we can make it to the bottom." He smiled at Freddy, looking a little pink and breathless from all the laughing and the hill climbing. "You get on and I'll push."

Freddy settled on his tray and Jacob crouched behind him, hands on his shoulders, and started to run. Freddy expected him to shove him away, but instead Jacob picked up his legs and piled on Freddy's back, practically bending him in two. They went hurtling down the hill until the sled stopped short and threw them off, sending them tumbling, yelping in surprise.

Freddy looked around and said, "We almost made it."

Jacob lifted his head for a moment to gauge the distance between where they'd crash landed and the bottom of the hill. "Yeah," he agreed, chuckling, "close enough."

Freddy pulled up his hood and laid on his back next to Jacob. He had snow in his shoes and water droplets on his glasses, but it was worth it. The school grounds were practically silent—no one outside, little traffic passing on the slippery street below. He sighed, closed his eyes, and listened to the nothing.

Jacob shifted next to him. "Ready, Freddy?"

Freddy opened his eyes to see Jacob had propped himself up on his elbow. Jacob smiled down at him. Freddy smiled back.

Jacob tucked himself along Freddy's side and leaned in, slow. Maybe too slow. Fearing he might be teasing or might change his mind, Freddy reached up and tugged him down by the collar of his coat. It knocked a little chuckle out of Jacob, which turned into a sigh as their lips met.

Jacob's mouth was soft, careful, like he didn't want to scare him…which would be a first.

He gave Freddy plenty of air between each drugging kiss, and Freddy could go on like this for days, only…he didn't want to. He trapped Jacob's lower lip between his and dabbed it with his tongue, just barely, just a touch, but it was enough to disengage the parking brake. Jacob gasped and gave a little deeper, licking into Freddy's mouth, making Freddy shiver.

Jacob kissed with more than just his lips and his tongue. He kissed with his nose, nudging it against Freddy's cheek as they broke to breathe. He kissed with his fingertips, which slipped inside Freddy's hood to stroke his hair, to tug playfully on his earlobes. Freddy strained to remember all the YouTube videos, but all he could do was try and keep up, cupping Jacob's neck to keep him close, digging his fingers into his arm or back when he did something Freddy liked.

Jacob popped up after a while and looked toward the school, startled. "That's the bell," he breathed. Freddy hadn't heard it. Jacob lowered his gaze, eyes sweeping over Freddy's face, and asked, "Should we go back in?" Freddy shook his head. Jacob grinned, and Freddy found it was hard to meet his eyes when he was so close…and his lips were so swollen and pink. "No?"

"No," Freddy confirmed.

Jacob slid Freddy's glasses off and rested them on the crown of his head before swooping back in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanna read some POV swaps on past _Jump_ scenes, an excerpt from something that happened before the beginning of the fic, and a draft of a scene yet to come? **[Cool.](http://ficthepainaway.tumblr.com/tagged/no-excuses-writing-meme)**


	12. Magnets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While researching methods to deal with the persistent rash he had where Jacob's stubble would drag against face, Freddy turned up a stat: the average person spent about two weeks of their lives kissing. He felt like he and Jacob were trying to get it all out of the way at once.

Freddy found himself in a peculiar position, caught between wanting more and being afraid to ask for it.

These days when Jacob slid his hand up Freddy's neck and purred, "Wanna take a study break?" Freddy would nod eagerly. He actually had a suspicion they spent more time kissing than what was considered average. While researching methods to deal with the persistent rash he had where Jacob's stubble would drag against face, Freddy turned up a stat: the average person spent about two weeks of their lives kissing. He felt like he and Jacob were trying to get it all out of the way at once.

Virtually every time they were alone, Jacob and Freddy wound up stuck together, all open mouths and tangled limbs. Freddy would stand outside trying to catch a snowflake on his tongue, but he'd end up bent backward at an absurd angle, Jacob's tongue jammed in his mouth instead. They'd go to see a movie and miss all the trailers because they lost track of time while locking lips in the passenger seat of Jacob's car. They'd get high and make out lazily on the floor of Jacob's bedroom, time slowed to a crawl and every touch intensified. Freddy was getting used to this new normal, but a dizzy thrill still ran through him every time Jacob looked at him with hungry eyes. He would never get over the feeling of being...wanted. Of being desirable—to anyone, but especially to Jacob Frye.

But all they ever kid was kiss, and nothing…extra. His best guess was that Jacob wanted Freddy, the virgin in the relationship, to signal he was ready. (Jacob never had that hang-up _before_ he found out the extent of Freddy's inexperience. So that marked the last time Freddy told the truth in Never Have I Ever.) Freddy wanted more—desperately—but he was nervous about being bad at it, about disappointing Jacob and looking foolish. About not being able to make Jacob come. He wanted to skip all the trial and error and jump forward in time to when he knew what Jacob liked and had already learned how to perform it proficiently.

They got close to going the extra step sometimes. They were close now, actually, as Jacob rolled his hips where he was straddling Freddy's lap. They were both half-hard and getting harder and Freddy felt fever-hot trapped between Jacob's body and the wall. He broke for air, applying his mouth to Jacob's throat, then his neck—nipping and licking and inhaling hungrily. Freddy clamped down for a bruising, sucking bite and Jacob actually _moaned,_ scrabbling at Freddy's shoulders and twisting his fingers into his shirt.

One thing Freddy had learned was about himself: it turned out Freddy didn't have much crossover between pleasure and pain. There was no spectrum for him, and being on the receiving end of anything but the carefullest nibble or scratch would immediately switch him off. Jacob, on the other hand, went wild for it—quivering and panting and holding Freddy in place. He'd known this about Jacob since the day at the tattoo parlor, and he was infinitely glad to be able to finally put that knowledge to use.

Freddy released his hold on Jacob's neck. Jacob twisted his hands in Freddy's hair and gave him a rough kiss, knocking his head head back against the wall. Freddy was sneaking his hands up the back of Jacob's shirt when he heard the front door open.

Freddy shoved him abruptly backward, off his lap and onto the bed. "Wh—Freddy?" Jacob said, blinking up at him, all swollen lips and mussed hair.

"My dad's home," Freddy hissed. Early, too. He scrambled off the bed and sat at his desk, pulling the chair in all the way and haphazardly opening the nearest book. "Look normal!"

Freddy wiped his mouth, ran his fingers through his hair. Jacob mirrored him, then adjusted the bulge in his jeans with a saucy wink in Freddy's direction. "Don't do that," Freddy snapped.

"Fred?" his dad called.

"Up here! We're—" he grabbed another book from his desk and threw it at Jacob "—studying!"

Ed appeared in the doorway, straightening up when he spotted Jacob sitting on the bed, exaggeratedly pretending to study with his brows knit and an index finger on his chin. "Oh, it's…Jake, right?"

"That's me," Jacob replied, straightening and offering up a winning smile.

After a moment of considering Jacob and the "overconfident criminal" smile he was sporting, Ed leaned past the doorjamb and addressed Freddy, saying, "I was going to ask if you wanted to run by the store with me, but you've got company. I'll see you when I get back." He left for his bedroom, and Freddy and Jacob were quiet until he walked past again, having changed out of his uniform and into street clothes.

A beat after the front door clicked shut, Jacob said, "Your dad doesn't know about us." It didn't sound hurt or even surprised—it was just a statement. A true one.

Freddy kept his gaze fixed on the book he'd been pretending to study. "He knows…less than that." He glanced over his shoulder at Jacob, who cocked his head.

"Freddy." Jacob sat forward on the bed, swinging his legs over the edge. "Does your dad not know you like boys?"

Freddy had never dated anyone before, and his dad wasn't the type to try to force romantic interactions on him, so coming out hadn't seemed particularly urgent before. But now…

Freddy pushed out from his desk, then dropped onto the mattress next to Jacob. "It's not that he's homophobic or that I'm ashamed—nothing like that," Freddy explained. "I just think it's stupid that I have to set up, like, a meeting and make a formal announcement. It's uncomfortable. And unfair. I want to come home with a boy I'm seeing and have it be treated like it's normal."

"Only not yet, I take it?" Jacob inferred, adding a close-lipped smile. "If you want to skip the verbal coming out and just be discovered in a man's passionate embrace, that can be arranged."

His dad may not have been homophobic, but he was a far cry from "accessible" or, god forbid, "sex positive." When Freddy was eleven, Ed handed him a copy of _The "What's Happening to My Body?" Book for Boys_ and clapped him on the shoulder, and that was the last they'd touched on that. So the sight of Freddy getting busy with Jacob might actually kill Edward Abberline. Instead of telling Jacob that, Freddy knitted their fingers together and prompted, "That so?"

Jacob snickered. "Yeah. I mean, I'm sure Ned or Aleck would be up for it if I asked nicely." Jacob nudged his shoulder and Freddy blew out an exasperated sigh.  
  


* * *

  
They were running a passing drill: six players, three balls. Players moved in triangular patterns—from the lane line straight to midcourt, then kitty corner to the opposite lane line—passing the balls quickly between them. It was fast-paced, almost manic, and if one player broke from the set speed it would quickly devolve into chaos.

Starrick knew that, which is why he sped up, which is how he managed to smack Freddy in the face with a basketball passed overhead with absurd force.

Freddy reeled backward on a yelp, barely righting himself before he fell. Tasting copper, he gingerly touched his fingertips to his face—bloody nose? No, split lip. No, both. _Damn it._

"Hey, Abberline," Starrick said, tone of concern clashing with his self-satisfied smirk. Their teammates stopped running the drill to look on. "You all right? Sorry 'bout that."

He lifted a hand to touch Freddy's arm and Freddy withdrew sharply, waving violently with the hand not occupied with damming the blood that streamed from his face. Starrick's smirk got wider. _Asshole._

_Smug fucking asshole._

"Abberline, with me," Coach Westhouse said, flat. "You're bleeding all over the court."

Freddy followed him out of the gym and into one of the offices connected to the locker room. He was able to pinch his nostrils shut without much pain—a good sign—while he held the cold pack Coach Westhouse offered against his face. He left Freddy to sit in a plastic chair, leaning his elbows on his knees and seething.

Freddy had never been picked on before. No, that wasn't right—he'd been teased when teasing was due, but it had never been focused or consistent. But now…he didn't feel bullied, precisely. Freddy wasn't afraid of Starrick or his cronies; he was just angry. And helpless. Helpless because the problem didn't start and end with his shitty teammates. Coach B was in with Starrick Junior, Starrick Senior, and all the paid-off referees in their circle of cheats. Meanwhile, the athletic department dedicated 75 percent of its time and resources to boys' hockey. They didn't care what happened on the other teams, least of all Billingsworth's—he had a great record of bringing his boys to state tournaments.

Even if Freddy wanted to snitch, there was no one to snitch _to._

The bleeding stopped after a few minutes, so Freddy dipped into the bathroom to wash his face, his neck. He stripped off his practice jersey to rinse the blood out of the collar, and it came away mostly clean. He examined his reflection in the mirror over the sink. It wasn't bad…yet. The bruises would show up tomorrow, but the corner of his upper lip had already started to swell where it was cut.

Coach Westhouse was back in the office when Freddy returned, a collection of additional first aid supplies spread out on the desk. He told Freddy to sit.

"I've got to ask," Coach Westhouse said, wetting some cotton with antiseptic and dabbing it on Freddy's split lip. "What did you even do?"

Freddy shrugged. He wasn't even sure it was about the hazing anymore or his flat refusal to bend the rules. Maybe he was just someone who'd gotten away with flying under the radar for too long, and his time to be bullied had finally arrived.

"Well, I'm…sorry this is happening to you, Abberline."

"Then _do_ something," Freddy snarled. His lip throbbed and he winced, reaching up reflexively to touch it. "You're the coach!"

"I'm the _assistant_ coach," Coach Westhouse corrected, smiling ruefully. "And I can make them run 17s as much as I want, but it's Billingsworth who says who stays and who goes, and you seem to have the entire starting lineup plotting against you." This wasn't news. And it was bad enough when they were just using cheap tricks on him during practice—now they'd scaled their attacks up to chucking overinflated basketballs at his face. "If you were him, what would you do? Kick four boys off the team who have been playing for him for years, or get rid of the new kid who's causing problems?"

Freddy scowled, lip stinging again.

"I've vouched for you with Billingsworth, and I'll keep vouching for you," Coach Westhouse continued. He squeezed some ointment onto a cotton swab and touched it to Freddy's lip. "He may not like your playstyle but he'd be an idiot to kick you off the team, and he knows it. In the meantime just…try and lay low. OK, Abberline?"

It was good advice. But Freddy had the beginnings of a different idea.  
  


* * *

  
Winter break was shaping up to be two straight weeks of Jacob. Freddy procrastinated on his homework in favor of long, lazy hours spent playing video games and dozing in Jacob's bed, on Jacob's couch. They looked after Clara a couple of times, filling those days with snow forts and paper snowflake cut-outs and more of Freddy's improvised cookie recipes. They went "skidding" with the group, spinning and shouting through empty, icy parking lots in Agnes' station wagon, a relic from the time before anti-lock brakes. All in all, it was the most fun (and least productive) winter holiday Freddy had ever had.

He and Jacob were up late one night, watching a movie after the rest of the Fryes had retired to bed. They moved from sitting on the sofa to lying on the sofa to sitting on the floor, Freddy situated between Jacob's legs and feeling Jacob's every response to the film—how he'd go rigid during tense scenes, how he'd wiggle minutely when something sweet happened. Too lazy to move, they watched through the credits until Netflix went back to the title screen.

Their attention shifted from the TV to the fireplace. It was a gas fireplace, and Jacob always turned it up so high it made Freddy sweat. Another thing making Freddy sweat: Jacob's lips pulling on his earlobe, his tongue working up the shell of his ear.

"I miss kissing you," Jacob murmured, referencing the slow-healing cut on Freddy's upper lip. It was down to an inflamed pink line, but Jacob still obediently kept his distance, pausing now and then to fume about Starrick.

Freddy had shut down Jacob's initial (and gratuitously violent) revenge plot against Starrick and his gang, but Jacob still clung to the idea of getting them thrown off the team. His new plan was to find out where they were partying one weekend, then send the police to bust them for underage drinking. Freddy had said no to that idea as well, feeling uncomfortable with the prospect of getting Starrick in trouble for illegal activity he himself took part in.

Freddy's idea was a bit subtler: file a formal complaint against the referees, all six of them in rotation at Animus. He knew he'd never be on equal footing with his teammates, but this at least allowed other teams to be. It also gave some of the younger players—those who didn't break the rules with the same gusto as the senior starting lineup—the opportunity to play fair, with a clean conscience.

He'd already tracked down the refs' names and filled out all the forms required by the sanctioning body. Now he just needed video of a few games and an additional signature on the report (which Henry had agreed to provide, after some persuasion).

Freddy had offered Jacob the opportunity to help as well, to work out his retaliation instinct that way, but Jacob responded the same way he did when Freddy asked if he wanted to attend one of his games: by wrinkling his nose and drawling, "I'm more of an under-the-bleachers kind of guy."

That stung a little, but it was in the past. In the present, Jacob was talking about kissing.

Freddy missed it too, even if that felt foolish and desperate—he'd gone all his life without Jacob's feverish kisses, and it seemed too soon to feel restless without them. He didn't confess that to Jacob, though. Instead, emboldened by not having to say it to Jacob's face, Freddy suggested what had been on his mind for weeks now.

"Well." He cleared his throat, sat up a bit. "We could…do other stuff."

Jacob waited a beat and then, in a low tone indicating he knew exactly what Freddy meant, he asked, "What kind of stuff?" Freddy turned to look at Jacob in his periphery, and Jacob waggled his eyebrows.

"Are you going to make me say it?" Freddy asked.

Jacob hummed a little and dropped a kiss on Freddy's cheek. "No," he replied, speaking in Freddy's ear. "But you can show me."

That made something constrict in Freddy's chest, pull in tight and harden into a knot. He tried swallowing it down, but that only made it harder to breathe. Then, trembling, he lifted Jacob's hand.

Freddy guided Jacob's fingers up his thigh, then inward—slow, hesitating all the way. Once their hands reached Freddy's crotch, Jacob mercifully took over. He curled his fingers and squeezed down, hard. Breath hitching, Freddy leaned heavily into Jacob as he started to rub, feeling along the outline of Freddy's cock, building pressure faster than he could relieve it. It was almost an out of body experience, watching fingers that weren't his massage his swelling dick, even while he could hear and feel Jacob's deep, even breaths behind him.

Jacob nosed at the hinge of Freddy's jaw until his head lolled to the side, then he went to work on Freddy's neck, kissing and nipping. Freddy rolled his hips up against Jacob's flexing fingers, back against Jacob's groin, and Jacob answered with a wet sigh, warming the crook of Freddy's neck and radiating outward. Jacob hooked his chin over Freddy's shoulder, and his left hand joined his right to undo Freddy's belt and fly. He paused for a moment, letting Freddy wait breathlessly—trousers open and heart pounding—for what came next. Then Jacob's fingers crept down, lifting the band of Freddy's underwear and pulling out his cock.

It shouldn't have been much different than when Freddy jerked himself off, but it was. It was the feeling of Jacob's chest against his back, his thighs caging him in. It was Jacob's appreciative noise when he got Freddy in hand and his filthy chuckle when Freddy's cock twitched, pearling with precum. It was the knowledge that they were in Jacob's living room, out in the open, and someone could have strolled through at any moment on their way to get a midnight snack. It all added up to be better, hotter, more urgent—and it left Freddy keening and thrusting into Jacob's sticky fingers, unable to help himself.

Jacob pumped his fist, steady and quick, and Freddy struggled to hold in a stream of whimpers and sighs that would surely give them away. Jacob's free hand felt along Freddy's chest and abdomen, rucking up his shirt and splaying greedily over his stomach. That made Freddy remember his own hands, and he found them digging into the carpet. He lifted one to knead at Jacob's thigh, and the other scrabbled higher to twist into Jacob's hair. He pulled, rough, and it made Jacob gasp and stroke faster, fist twisting at the head of Freddy's cock.

Jacob breathed, "Christ, look at you…" but Freddy did the opposite, shutting his eyes and tipping his head back onto Jacob's shoulder. He lost the sight of Jacob's fingers on his dick, but the snapping sounds of slick and skin only got louder and more obscene.

Freddy tried not to moan, tried not to make a dumb face as he felt his orgasm build, coiling hot and tight and his stomach. In the end, all the warning he managed was, "Jacob— _Jacob_ —" before coming with muffled groan, striping his stomach and getting it all over Jacob's fist. Jacob loosened his grip but kept stroking, easing out every last drop.

Freddy slumped against Jacob, spent. Jacob's hand disappeared for a moment and came back, jizz-free, to cross over Freddy's chest and hold him close. It took Freddy a moment to register Jacob's labored breathing, to feel Jacob's erection straining in his jeans.

That was enough to give Freddy a recharge, effectively sapping all the exhaustion from his limbs. He turned in Jacob's lap, and his hands went straight for Jacob's waistband.

"You don't have to…" Jacob rasped, even as his hips stuttered up into Freddy's touch.

"I know," Freddy replied. He kneed backward, balancing on one hand, then leaned down toward Jacob's groin.

"And—" Jacob swallowed, "—you _definitely_ don't have to do that."

"I know," Freddy repeated, glancing up. "Will you teach me?" He met Jacob's gaze and Jacob stared back a moment, lips parted and eyes wide, all evidence of his usual his brash wisecracks evaporated. Then he nodded.

Freddy tugged Jacob's jeans down a few inches, then lowered his lips to mouth at the shape of his cock, drawn to the bulge in his underwear like a magnet. He found the tip and sucked at it, curious, and kept sucking until the fabric was wet through.

"Oh, so you're a tease," Jacob observed headily, fondly.

Was he? Freddy didn't know anything about teasing—that sounded more purposeful than him entertaining his oral fixation. Either way, he took Jacob's words as a cue to move on and licked back along the line of Jacob's erection before easing down the elastic of his underwear.

Jacob's cock was big—a bit stout, like Jacob was. Handsome, like Jacob was. Freddy leaned in to dip his tongue in the slit and found that it tasted a little like soap and a lot like skin: salty, sweaty. He got a firm grip on the base and closed his lips around the head, flicking his tongue at the sensitive spot just below and making Jacob sigh.

He tried to sink a bit lower, but the friction stung his stupid split lip. So he settled on opening his mouth as he worked down, then closing his lips as he came up. Jacob felt huge in his mouth, bigger than any bottle or banana Freddy had covertly sucked down, passively interested in how much he could swallow before gagging (it wasn't much, regrettably). Bigger, hotter, and more alive—Jacob's cock throbbed and dribbled precum and Freddy swirled it up with his tongue.

Freddy drew back to take a breather, lips pursing around the head. He looked up and met Jacob's eyes, darker than he'd ever seen them. His cheeks were darker too, blooming pink and pleased.

"Is this okay?" Freddy asked breathlessly.

 _"God_ _,_ yes, Freddy. Keep going."

So he did—dipping down, sealing his lips, sucking his way back to the tip—while his fist worked up and down Jacob's cock. He kept going until he didn't have to think about breathing through his nose or keeping his teeth clear of Jacob's dick—he just did it, instinctual. Jacob instructed him as promised, in heated whispers: "a little wetter, Freddy" and "yeah, yeah, that's perfect—again" and "take your other hand— _hnn,_ _yes_ , just like that."

Jacob was falling apart, shuddering under Freddy's touch. It made Freddy feel wild and wanton and _powerful,_ being able to make Jacob writhe and gulp for air. He loved Jacob getting him off, but he might love getting Jacob off even more.

Jacob planted his hands on Freddy's head for a second, then dropped them. "No," Freddy murmured, looking up while lapping at the underside of Jacob's cock. "Do that." Mouth passing between a grin and a gasp, Jacob got his hands in Freddy's hair, neither pushing nor pulling, just weaving in and holding on tight. Freddy kept bobbing his head, glasses slipping down his sweaty nose. His arm protested where it held him up and his jaw was starting to get sore, but he didn't care—he didn't care. All he wanted was to drag more full-body shivers and strangled moans from the boy beneath him.

Freddy pulled off Jacob's cock, panting, his tongue curling along the slit. He kept tugging ruthlessly fast, his fist coated in precum and spit, until Jacob choked, _"Hah,_ oh god, I'm gonna—I'm gonna come—"

Freddy took Jacob's pulsing dick back into his mouth just in time, just before Jacob's back bowed and his lips parted around a ragged groan. Jacob shook through his orgasm, flooding Freddy's mouth with cum. Freddy grimaced at the taste of it, salty and sour, but managed to swallow most of it down before he drew away.

He didn't quite sit, but fell backward onto his ass, panting and exhausted like he'd been running for miles. That was…huh. He used the edge of his sleeve to wipe the wet off his lips and chin.

"You look smug," Jacob commented from where he was slouched over against the edge of the sofa.

Freddy smiled, muscles in his cheeks burning. "I am a little proud," he admitted, feeling filthy, feeling great.

Jacob laughed as he gingerly tucked his dick back into his pants. "Good," he replied. He rose to his knees and crawled over to Freddy, nudging him down to the floor and pressing featherlight kisses to his lower lip. "You should be."  
  


* * *

  
"Hot tub first, then diving lessons," Jacob said. He dragged the cover off the hot tub and cast it aside with a wet flop. Then he started peeling out of his clothes, littering them along the rim of the tub as he sauntered back toward Freddy.

"I don't know why you're so insistent on me teaching you something that has no real life applications," Freddy grumbled. He kicked off his shoes and stripped off his socks, cold and dripping wet from the snowy path they took across the school grounds to avoid being sighted by the cameras.

Jacob stopped in Freddy's space to help him shrug out of his jacket. Smirking, he asked, "Now, are you talking about diving or calc?"

Freddy rolled his eyes, but Jacob likely missed it, occupied as he was lifting the hem of Freddy's sweater up and over his head. He didn't need assistance undressing, but he wasn't about to stop Jacob, who lifted an eyebrow and watched Freddy's face as he unbuttoned his trousers.

Though he could count the number of times they'd made each other come on one hand, fooling around was clearly their _new_ new normal. So when their pool party for two turned into Freddy straddling Jacob's lap, Jacob slipping his hands under Freddy's waistband to roughly grab his ass, Freddy wasn't surprised.

Jacob's breathy moans were swallowed up by the noise from the gushing hot tub jets…as were the sounds of the police officers who walked in, responding to a call from the school about the two boys in the pool who'd tripped their newly-installed motion detectors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Click for more Jump-inspired art by Dacas,](http://4dcs4.tumblr.com/tagged/jump-fic) including a super vital illustration of the last scene in the last chapter. ~(˘▾˘~)


	13. Never Ending Circles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You come straight home after practice. You stay in on the weekends. No phone. You can take it to school, but you leave it on the kitchen counter when you get home. And no computer either, unless you have a paper to write. Is that clear?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very…tame compared to the last one, but if you're in the mood for some NSFW fanart: [BJs by weillschmidtdoodles](http://weillschmidtdoodles.tumblr.com/post/142423906937/from-jumps-scene-on-chapter-12-miren-despu%C3%A9s-de) and [HJs by masonchism.](http://masonchism.tumblr.com/post/142497659877/im-in-hell-bc-of-jump-ch-12-thanks-a-lot) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

****"I'm so…" Freddy's father trailed off, leaving only the sound of tires spinning on the pavement and air hissing ineffectively through the car's vents. "Disgusted, first of all, that you would break into a building. A school building, no less."

Freddy stared out the window, hands curling in his lap. During his and Jacob's visit to the police station, they found out that the school had installed motion detectors in the pool after they'd forgotten to put the cover back on the hot tub during one of their visits. Since they hadn't done any damage, the school wasn't pressing charges. They were recommending that Jacob be assigned a different calc tutor, however, and that Freddy sit out of basketball games for two weeks. (Knowing that Coach B would go a step farther than benching Freddy once he heard the news, Freddy gave Jacob the OK to deploy his plan to bust Starrick and the rest for drinking. Coach wouldn't kick them _all_ off the team.)

"Being called down to the station in the middle of the night to pick you up," Ed continued, shaking his head. "My subordinates seeing that I can't keep my _own son_ in line…it's humiliating, Fred."

"I'm sorry," Freddy mumbled.

"And you're seeing that boy," Ed charged on, like he hadn't heard him. "What else are you doing that I don't know about?"

"Nothing," Freddy lied, thinking about the drinking and the drugs and the borrowed fake ID, tucked in the pages of an old book at home. Lucky it hadn't found its way back into Jacob's wallet before their things had been picked through and catalogued at the police station.

Ed's head swiveled to look at him, but Freddy didn't meet his eyes. "What else?" he snapped.

"Nothing!" Freddy repeated, louder this time.

Ed blew out a loud sigh. It clouded the cool air in front of him like he was an angry cartoon bull, which wasn't far from the reality. Freddy stared at his knees, silent.

"For the record," Ed began, voice a little softer but not by much, "I'm not mad at you for dating a boy. I'm mad at you for breaking into your high school to…go _necking_ with that boy. He's obviously a rotten influence."

There was truth in that. It wasn't just Freddy's newfound enjoyment of getting drunk or getting high—it was the fact that he couldn't focus on schoolwork or SAT retake prep or much of anything, prone as he was to daydreaming about Jacob Frye's wandering fingers and clever tongue. Worse yet, he didn't care. He didn't care that he was caught in Jacob's whirlwind and that things like sneaking into pools or spending quality time with drug dealers didn't phase him anymore.

Freddy thought about saying _maybe I'm the rotten influence,_ but he knew that wouldn't work. Freddy's perfect record aside, Jacob just had the _look_ of a menace; it was surprising Ed hadn't banned him from the house on sight.

In absence of a better response, Freddy mumbled, "Thanks."

"Don't thank me. You won't be spending much time with him, seeing how you're grounded indefinitely," Ed replied, shrewd. "You come straight home after practice. You stay in on the weekends. No phone. You can take it to school, but you leave it on the kitchen counter when you get home. And no computer either, unless you have a paper to write. Is that clear?"

Freddy responded with a tight nod. He leaned his head against the window and shut his eyes, lulled by the glow from passing street lights—bright for a second, then dark. Bright, then dark.

He broke the news to Jacob (who was equally grounded) the next day.

"No phone?" Jacob repeated on the other end of the call, adding a gratuitously long whine. "That was the only upside of this: it was going to be our golden age of sexting! Wait, how are you talking to me right now?"

"My dad's at work," Freddy explained. He glanced reflexively in the direction of the front door. "I'll delete the call when I'm done. He had me unlock my phone so he can check if I've been using it when he's not around, but he doesn't realize that I can erase recent activity."

Jacob made an amused sound then purred, "You naughty boy."

"So maybe don't send dick pics," Freddy advised, which sent Jacob off whining again.

Freddy leaned over the kitchen counter, sharing silence with Jacob. It was nice to simulate Jacob's company. The last time they saw each other, they were sitting in holding, waiting to find out whether they were going to get booked. Jacob was staring into the middle distance and Freddy was shaking uncontrollably. It hadn't been the best night.

"This is the first time in my life that I want winter break to be over," Jacob grumbled. "I miss you."

Freddy smiled weakly. "I saw you just last night," he pointed out. "You know what this is like?"

" _Wife Swap—_ I know. Shut up, Freddy."

In a few days, Freddy was missing Jacob too. He attempted to justify it by thinking he just missed social contact in general, but he knew the truth. He only missed Jacob.

He tried to curtail this by focusing on the many things that annoyed him about Jacob, but it never worked. He'd recall how Jacob chewed with his mouth open, loud and sloppy, but then he'd get sidetracked and start thinking about how Jacob's mouth opened when he orgasmed too, wet and pink and perfect. He'd think about on the way Jacob would fixate on new words he'd learned, using them over and over during the course of a week. But that brought to mind the time Freddy had privately pointed out that "irregardless" wasn't a word and how every time Jacob said "regardless" afterward he'd shoot Freddy this proud, hopeful look. He'd think of how Jacob snored and drooled and kicked while he slept, turning any nap into a test of Freddy's patience and reflexes. But then Freddy would remember how whenever he gently shook Jacob out of his snoring, he'd let out this unconscious little mewl and wiggle in a way he'd probably fiercely deny.

Basically, he'd gone full _Wife Swap._ It was sickening.

So on New Year's Eve, when Freddy was lying on his belly reading a book, he was pretty sure the sound of a tap on his bedroom window was wishful thinking. But then it happened again. And again.

He pulled back his curtain and found Jacob perched in the tree outside his window, wearing an enormous grin. Freddy opened the window and whispered, "Be careful!" as Jacob climbed out onto a snow-covered branch, going hand over hand.

"Yeah, yeah," he murmured back, swinging into Freddy's room without issue. Jacob straightened up and gave Freddy a peck on the cheek. His lips left a cold spot behind.

"How'd you get out of your house?" Freddy asked. Maybe it was the low light from the bedside lamp, or maybe it was Freddy's waning immunity, but Jacob looked unusually attractive. His nose and cheeks were tinged pink from the cold, and the tips of his ever-longer hair was curving softly against his neck. Freddy fought to keep his hands to himself.

"My parents are having a New Year's party and I was banished to my room for 'submitting inappropriate prompts' for pictionary," Jacob replied, using air quotes. "Then I got bored so I climbed out Evie's window. …I don't think I'll be able to get back in that way, but I'm already grounded indefinitely so, whatever."

Jacob unpocketed the bag of candy he must've been using as window-knocking ammo and held it out to Freddy, who waved it away.

"What was your inappropriate prompt?" Freddy asked, watching as Jacob dumped all the candy in his mouth at once.

"Bukkake." Jacob grinned, cheeks full. He shrugged and added, "Our neighbor Mrs. Disraeli thought it was funny."

Jacob pulled off his hat and his hair floated with static electricity. Freddy reached up to tame it while Jacob shimmied out of his jacket, revealing the collared shirt, vest, and tie he wore underneath. Freddy bit back a comment on Jacob's uncharacteristically spiffy party attire and instead murmured, "I'm glad you came to visit." There was a real possibility that his dad would hear them in there, even if they were whispering. But, just like Jacob, he was already grounded indefinitely.

"I wanted to report that Operation: Dropkick Starrick—" Jacob paused for Freddy to praise him for the rhyme, but Freddy was already smiling uncontrollably so all he could do was tilt his head in acknowledgment, "—was a success. Robbie Topping even put on a little juggling routine so everyone was facing him instead of the windows when the cops rolled up with the lightbar on. Apparently they got a good jump on their New Year's Eve arrest quotas, so your dad should be in a good mood."

Freddy nodded, sucking in his lips. "I don't feel bad about this," he said, mostly to himself.

Jacob replied, "Good. You shouldn't feel bad. Also, I've come for my New Year's kiss." He smirked, eyes crinkling. "What time is it?"

It was 11:53. They stood in front of Freddy's boxy little television and found the station that was re-airing the Times Square ball drop for their timezone. They watched for a few minutes, quiet, before Jacob suggested, "Do you want to just start kissing now?"

"Yeah."

Jacob tipped his nose into Freddy's, then his lips. Freddy melted into him, hopeless, hungry. Jacob kissed him until he was humming like a live wire, shivers following Jacob's fingertips wherever he touched.

They drew apart when the echoing countdown started on TV, foreheads together, listening. Jacob whispered along starting at "nine." Freddy came in at "seven."

The countdown wrapped. The ball dropped. A chorus of people on TV stumbled through "Auld Lang Syne." Instead of locking lips with Jacob again, Freddy sighed and observed, "Did we kind of ruin the magic with the kissing?"

"Maybe a little," Jacob agreed. He smirked as he said it, shameless. "We can get it back, though. Catch me."

All Freddy got out was, "Wh—?" before Jacob took a step back and launched himself at Freddy, wrapping his legs around his middle. He was too damn big—tall and broad and _heavy._ Freddy pitched sideways and they crashed to the floor, a pile of elbows and knees sending a series of thumps echoing through the quiet house.

A laugh bubbled up out of Jacob, and Freddy slapped a palm over his mouth. He listened past the knick knacks rattling on his bedside table from their force of their fall for any indication that Ed had heard them. He waited a full minute, eyes on the door, before taking his hands away. He and Jacob sighed in  unision.

"Happy New Year," Freddy whispered.

"Happy New Year," Jacob returned, pulling him in for another kiss.  
 

* * *

  
Going back to school was supposed to mean going back to Jacob. But that was willful ignorance about what school with Jacob was like and had always been like. He and Freddy had no classes together, nor did they have tutoring sessions anymore. Lunch lasted just half an hour and that was the only time they saw most of their friends besides. Basketball practice kept Freddy late at school every day, meaning he didn't even have the short window between the final bell and when his dad got home from work to sneak Jacob a call or a text.

So all told, between lunch and pit stops at each other's lockers, they spent maybe forty-five minutes together every day. It was better than nothing…but not by much. Freddy had considered cutting class to sneak away with Jacob, but he was already on thin ice with Coach. If word got back that he had been racking up absences, that'd be the end of his time on the team.

At least basketball was one thing that was going in his favor. At their first home game after break, two referees Freddy had never seen before were on the court. Animus lost the game, but Freddy couldn't stop grinning as the refs made fair call after fair call, as the expression on Coach B's face got stormier and stormier.

"The best part," Freddy told the lunch table the next day, pausing in what he hoped was a natural way as Starrick and Pearl strolled past them, "was when the refs missed a couple of calls in our favor." He smirked, remembering the way Coach B blew up after an opposing player slapped Henry's arm while he lined up a shot. "That's literally never happened before."

"Look at you all high on revenge," Jacob cooed. He nudged Freddy's knee with his under the table. "You're a regular old Inigo Montoya. But subtler and less violent."

"An Amélie," Aleck supplied between bites of his sandwich.

Jacob indicated Aleck with a flick of his index finger and agreed, "An Amélie."

So it was with an Amélian assurance that he was putting mankind first that he watched his team give up another win on Friday night.

Freddy had never made it to the state tournaments while playing for North, but Animus routinely climbed the bracket and played at state almost every year. If he'd just let things be, he'd be on his way to championship games, to maybe getting scouted. Freddy had no illusions about going pro, but there was a chance he'd get recruited by a smaller state school and get his tuition taken care of if he wound up playing in front of the right people.

Maybe they'd make up the losses. Maybe not. In the meantime, he was happy to be doing right by the other teams in their section.

That sense of harmony was punctured, however, when he saw "SNITCH" scrawled vertically on his locker once the Friday game was over. And it deflated completely when he opened the locker and saw it was empty. No clothes, no wallet, no phone. His toiletries were gone too, which explained the gooey line of soap he'd stepped over on his way to the locker. Freddy followed the gel trail to the showers, where he found the rest of his belongings in a sopping lump under a stream of water.  


* * *

  
"I borrowed this." Freddy held out Jacob's sweatshirt, which he'd lifted from his locker so he had an extra layer to wear home after his teammates had soaked all his clothes. (And his jacket. And his shoes. And his phone, which no longer worked.)

"Oh!" Jacob plucked the sweatshirt out of Freddy's hand. He smirked and leaned close to add, "Did you hold it to your nose with one hand while you jerked off with the other?" Evie, who had been standing next to Jacob at her own locker, emitted a noise of disgust and made a quick exit.

Freddy said, "No." He felt a pang of regret that that hadn't occurred to him, though. It was probably the closest he'd come to getting touched by Jacob for a while.

"Well now it smells like you, at least." Jacob took a whiff of the sweatshirt, then frowned. "Or it smells like literally nothing."

"I washed it," Freddy confirmed. "We have unscented detergent."

"It's close enough." Jacob hung the sweatshirt in his locker by its hood then started picking through the mess for the books he needed for first period. "So, my new tutor started this weekend."

Judging by Jacob's tone, Freddy knew the answer to his next question, but he asked it anyway. "How was it?"

"Awful," Jacob snapped, all melodrama. "She won't respond to my flirting because she's 'not interested,' whatever that means, and she wants to meet on weekend mornings so she can go to her shift at that new fucking fro-yo place afterward." He shook his head, looking ceilingward. "What if I wanted to go to church? Hmm? She's basically infringing on my freedom of religion."

Staring out at the lockers across the hall, mind racing, Freddy murmured, "That's a great idea."

"Going to church?" Jacob scoffed. "No, they would never let me back in there after what happened at the Christmas play."

"No. What? No—I'm talking about meeting in the mornings." Jacob tucked his hair behind his ear in order to look at Freddy sidelong. Freddy stepped a little closer to make his case. "Come early to school. Say you want to sign in for extra credit in calc, but then spend the time with me instead."

Jacob knit his brows. "How early?"

"I don't know—like, 7:00?" Jacob flinched like he'd been slapped.

"7:00?!" He shook his head, mouth twisted into a shocked grimace. "I'm sorry, Freddy, but I am _no one's_ boyfriend at 7:00 in the morning."

"Jacob, come on. We never see each other. We never talk. And this is the only way we'll be able to do either until we're both un-grounded." He hooked a finger through Jacob's belt loop and drew him in. "Please?"

Jacob's gaze flickered between Freddy's eyes, assessing. Freddy could see the exact moment that he won. _"Fine,"_ Jacob groaned, and Freddy beamed. He shut his locker—slammed it a little, actually—and stomped off, snarling, "You're lucky I like you!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted [a Jump outtake over on Tumblr,](http://ficthepainaway.tumblr.com/post/142708021880/jump-outtake-chapter-75) if you're not ready to be done reading. :)


	14. Midway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jacob and Freddy establish a new morning ritual.

The first couple of days, Jacob napped. He'd drag himself out of bed, shuffle blindly to the shower, and lean against the wall while the water fell over him. Next he'd shuffle onto a mostly-empty city bus, then shuffle into the mostly-empty school. He and Freddy would claim the comfiest library couch for themselves and Jacob would lay his head on Freddy's lap and snooze through their precious time together.

Freddy didn't seem to mind. Or at least he didn't say anything. He'd pet Jacob's hair while he dozed, quiet.

After Jacob adjusted to his new sleep schedule, he'd meet Freddy at his locker and they'd stroll around the school, shoulder to shoulder, looking for something to do—usually with limited success. They ended up in the gym a lot, sitting on the floors between bleacher seats with their legs propped up. There were way more people taking advantage of early morning open gym than Jacob would have guessed. A pretty dependable crew of students were there playing daily pickup games of basketball and volleyball, plus the cheer team was present now and then, shimmying in time to music floating up from a phone docked into speakers.

"It's just creepy, you know?" Jacob observed, speaking out of the side of his mouth.

Freddy—head on Jacob's shoulder, eyes on his phone, oblivious—went, "Hmm?"

"The racy cheer routines," Jacob clarified. "There's a presumed predator, Coach…Fondler or whatever her name is, behind all of this."

Jacob watched for Freddy's smile out of the corner of his eye and was thrilled when he got it—even if it was just a small, reluctant thing. Most of Freddy's smiles were. "I think her name is Coach Foster," he replied, sitting up. "And I doubt she's a predator."

"Why else would an adult instruct a bunch of teen girls to do…" Jacob waved his hand vaguely at the cheerleaders as they practiced their eight-count—bending down, bracing their hands on the floor, then shaking their asses. He couldn't imagine trying to play a sport while that was happening on the sidelines. "Don't you find it distracting?"

"No. Do you?"

Jacob watched the girls sink to the ground and kick their legs up before spreading them. _Really_ spreading them. He cleared his throat and said, "You wanna hang out somewhere more private?"

It took some encouraging—a little pouting, a little touching—but Freddy caved eventually. Jacob dragged him through the hallways, testing the doorknobs of every closet and supply room and part time classroom until they found an unlocked door in an unlikely spot: the auditorium.

"You're joking," Jacob said as the knob turned in his fist.

Behind him, Freddy deadpanned, "I hope _you're_ joking."

Jacob threw a smirk over his shoulder before pushing the door open and strolling inside. "Hello?" Nothing. "Hello-o-o?" Nada. Freddy followed him reluctantly, and Jacob shut and locked the door behind him.

"Shouldn't we try some other rooms?" Freddy asked, timid. "This is the least 'private' area we could possibly be in."

"There's no one in here," Jacob pointed out, waving a hand at the expanse of empty seats and unlit aisles. "How's that not private? Besides, it's not like we're going to do it on the stage." He perked up as the words came out of his mouth though, the image of Freddy pushing him down on the smooth floorboards at center stage and rutting into him manifesting vivid and white hot in his mind.

"No," Freddy said, just as Jacob opened his mouth to suggest it.

Even as he shot him down, Freddy walked past Jacob in the direction of the stage. They ducked behind the curtain and past the basic rigging, which led them down a dim hallway lined with stacked chairs. Freddy tried the first door on the left, and it opened into a cluttered overflow prop room. No shelving, just stacked boxes and trunks and tables. Pull-apart sides of chintzy sets leaned against the walls.

While Freddy went for a chair to bar the door, Jacob strolled over to a trunk of props. He dug around in it until he found a frumpy brown smock and graying bonnet. He shook them out of their folds and held them up to Freddy. "Here, put these on."

Freddy wrinkled his nose. "I'd rather not."

Jacob grinned and dropped the dress and bonnet back into the trunk and rifled around a moment longer until—"Bingo."

He straightened up, dropping a black top hat on his head. "Yeah?" Freddy glanced in his direction and huffed a laugh. "Wait." Jacob removed the hat for a moment, using one hand to sweep his hair back over the crown of his head. He put it back on and went "Yeah?" again.

Finished with barring the door, Freddy closed the distance between them. "You know," he said, considering, "once you get over the shock of how ridiculous it looks, it kind of suits you."

Jacob touched the brim of the hat and smirked. "Should I make it an everyday thing?"

"Uh…" Freddy's forced smile almost looked painful. "Maybe save it for prom?"

Jacob scoffed as he removed the hat, then bungled an attempt to roll it down his arm to his hand. "Yeah, no. Fuck prom."

Jacob stooped to pick up the hat where it had fallen on the floor, and when he was done depositing it back in the trunk he saw that Freddy had a—look, tinted sad. A familiar look, like he wanted to say something. So Jacob decided to step in and take it away.

He cupped Freddy's face in his hands, his fingertips tracing the line of his jaw, up to his carefully shaped sideburns. Jacob rubbed Freddy's earlobes between his fingers for a second, weighing the hopeful expression that had risen in Freddy's dark eyes. Then he pulled him in.

Jacob had been keeping busy while grounded. Or, more accurately, Jacob had been _filling his time_ while grounded. He took long naps. He watched an alarming amount of TV. He was still in contact with his friends—and getting constant group texts and occasional FaceTime invitations was nearly as good as being there. But the Freddy-shaped void was crushing him. He'd fill up Freddy's messages every night with nonsense updates—"did you know youtube has car maintenance tutorials? who needs agnes? who needs mechanics? i’m finishing the n600 on my own" and "evie started a study group and i plan to spoil it" and "i think after graduation i'm going to introduce man skirts into my wardrobe." And even though he knew Freddy had lost phone privileges, he'd still hopefully check for replies again and again.

There were other texts that he'd draft and delete, too saucy or too sappy to be read by Freddy's dad if he was monitoring the phone. Jacob could be saucy to Freddy's face, easy—but sappy? That was easier over text. It was lucky, maybe, that Jacob had time to reconsider before sending those messages off—they were pretty humiliating. "i wish you realized how handsome you are." "i've been thinking about it, and there's nothing about you that i don't like." "i want to follow you wherever you end up for college, but i worry you'll be too embarrassed to date some loser who's not in school."

He'd never say them now, but he did try to pour the sentiment into the drift of his lips and the drag of his teeth. Freddy sighed into his touch, breath feathering over Jacob's cheek. He slid his arms up and over Jacob's shoulders, and Jacob crowded into him, forcing Freddy back against the wall, hands braced on his hips.

Freddy kissed like he always did—this perfect, heady balance of shy and sly that made Jacob warm all over—but was a little more insistent this time, nipping and pulling and refusing to give Jacob time to breathe. Scrabbling at the collar of Jacob's shirt, Freddy fought to draw him closer even though there was nowhere for him to go, so Jacob shoved a thigh between Freddy's and took to rocking their hips together instead. He dropped his lips to Freddy's neck, wanting to bite and bruise but settling on hot, open-mouthed kisses, on making Freddy's breath come in shorter and harsher pulls.

Working a hand between them, Jacob fitted his palm over the bulge swelling in Freddy's jeans. Freddy sighed, a high thing just this side of a moan. "Can I?" Jacob murmured against the warm curve of his neck and shoulder. Freddy nodded jerkily.

Jacob kissed him again, sucking on his lip then on his tongue as he got Freddy's fly open one-handed, the other hand braced on the wall next to his head. He paused a moment, drawing back to look at Freddy, eyes half-shut and hazy, face pink and going pinker. It made something toss and swirl in his stomach—pleasure at Freddy's pleasure.

Then Jacob started making his way down, kissing a straight line down Freddy's chest and stomach, down, down, until his knees met the thin carpet and he was nosing, sucking at the open vee of Freddy's jeans. Freddy muffled a groan against his hand.

Jacob got two fingers in the band of Freddy's shorts and started inching them down, knuckles dragging along the line of his dick. He sighed happily as he pulled Freddy's cock free, and above him, Freddy shuddered. Jacob could see his hands flexing against the wall, looking for something to hold onto, so he snatched them up and knotted them in his hair. He sent Freddy what he hoped was a filthy smirk before parting his lips and going to work.

See, Jacob loved giving head. That was a general rule, but he loved it with Freddy the most.

Jacob was a real performer about it, moaning as he sucked, eyes fixed on his partner's face. Roth used to smirk down at him all the while, with the occasional criticism about overdoing it, but Freddy…Freddy just shook apart. His face was always so open, so patently awed, and the look alone made Jacob hum louder and swallow deeper.

Freddy fought to school his expression into one of more neutral enjoyment and, failing that, covered his face with a hand, bashful under the attention. He still projected everything though, through staggered breaths and twitching hips, and Jacob soaked it up, his own dick straining in his pants.

Jacob pulled off Freddy's cock, a thread of saliva connecting him to the plummy head, then dipped down to roll the flat of his tongue over the sensitive seam of his balls. Freddy whimpered as Jacob sucked one into his mouth, gentle.

"Oh, you like that?" Jacob cooed, tilting his head to do it again. Freddy tightened his fingers in Jacob's hair but remained silent. Jacob pulled off, tasting soap, and said, "I think you do."

Between gulps of air, Freddy managed to go, "Shh!" Jacob saw him cast a look at the door and understood he meant "shh, someone might hear us," but he saw a…special opportunity.

"You wanna shut me up?" Jacob asked, husky, before licking up Freddy's shaft, tongue turning in the slit. "Fuck my mouth."

Freddy—whose eyelids had been sliding down, whose body had been going slack against the wall—snapped to, eyes going wide, mouth falling open. Jacob would say he looked freaked out by the proposition, but the sheer size of his pupils gave him away. He was shocked, sure, but pleased. And hungry.

"Come on," Jacob murmured, slapping the head of Freddy's cock on his tongue a couple of times for effect. "Do it." He leaned forward on his knees and opened his mouth, waiting.

Freddy moved slowly at first—careful, shallow thrusts that had just the head of his cock nudging past Jacob's lips and along his tongue. Which was to be expected, really, because every time in the past that Jacob had tried to tease Freddy into harsher action—into getting impatient and shoving Jacob's face or hands against his crotch—Freddy's politeness won out.

But now Jacob understood that directness was key. So he planted his hands on Freddy's gently rolling hips, fingernails biting into his ass, and pulled him deeper. Freddy went with a whispered, "Oh—oh _shit._ " He laced his fingers through Jacob's hair and held tight as he started bucking in earnest—fast and hard and thrillingly rough. Jacob moaned, happy, and used his now-freed hands to press against his own groin, relieving a little pressure.

Between the taste of precum getting stronger and stronger in his mouth and the irregular, staccato rhythm of Freddy's thrusts, Jacob knew he was approaching the edge. He needed a breather before they got there, just for a second, so he pulled off Freddy's cock, gasping and reflexively clearing his throat. He went to wrap his lips back around the head for the homestretch, but Freddy started hauling him up by the hair instead.

"Wha—?" he mumbled, blinking dumbly at Freddy, his lips and chin all wet with saliva and precum and probably a little sweat. "Is something wrong?" Freddy shook his head, just once.

"I just want you up here right now," he whispered, out of breath, before pulling Jacob in for a slick, messy kiss. His fingers—quick and clever and co-stars in so many of Jacob's fantasies—found and undid Jacob's fly, leaving just a second of fevered anticipation between the realization that he was about to be touched and the moment when it happened. Freddy squeezed his hand around Jacob's dick, just right, and Jacob groaned—Freddy's touch searingly good after his erection had gone neglected. Jacob's hips stuttered and he pushed closer, and he keened against Freddy's cheek when his hand slid up and twisted at the head.

"What should we do?" Jacob rasped, mouth in Freddy's hair, against his ear. "Now that I'm up here?"

"What do you want?" Freddy asked. The question was quiet, almost toneless, but the clutch of Freddy's hand and the sweep of his thumb was all intent. Jacob fought to think through the sensation, not just Freddy's grip on his dick but the warmth of his body against his, the way his muscles pulled tight under Jacob's wandering touch.

Jacob reached again for Freddy's waistband, feeling along the lines of his hips as he slid his jeans and underwear down his thighs, letting them catch at his knees. "Turn around," Jacob said, meaning for it to sound like a suggestion and a little surprised when it came out like a command.

Freddy released Jacob's cock and hit him with a wide-eyed look before doing as he was told, bracing himself on his forearms. Jacob gave Freddy a not-strictly-necessary pinch on the buttcheek—he'd touched that ass a lot of times, but he'd never actually _seen_ it that he could recall. Freddy jumped a little but didn't protest, so Jacob did it again.

"Why are you doing that?"

"Cute butt," Jacob mumbled. He figured that was obvious. Freddy angled his face away, but not before Jacob spotted a sheepish smile.

Going back to business, Jacob spat in his hand and slicked up his cock. He moved forward, running a hand down the middle of Freddy's back, then murmured, "Thighs together for me." Freddy shifted positions, watching Jacob as best as he could over his shoulder, brown eyes bright but unreadable.

Hand on his shaft, Jacob nudged his dick against the crease between Freddy's upper thighs, then slid between them. He pulled back, slow, then rolled his hips forward again, watching greedily as his cock disappeared between Freddy's legs.

All the tension drained from Freddy's body for a moment, and he sagged against the wall with a relieved sigh. _Did he think—?_ Jacob wondered as Freddy repositioned, bowing his back and laying his forehead against his wrist. They hadn't even tried butt stuff yet; you can't just jump straight into anal without a few exploratory fingering sessions, maybe a smallish dildo if you've got one. Freddy was a virgin, but he was smart about this stuff—he should have known. He probably did know, just…lost it in the moment.

Oh, but the _thought_ of that. The thought of Freddy being willing, of Freddy wanting Jacob so much that he'd let him shove him against the wall in an oversized closet and fuck him before school—it had Jacob pushing harder and faster. The idea of sending Freddy off to his classes, hollowed out and walking funny and shivering whenever he remembered how he got that way—it was too much. Jacob would catch Freddy's eye in the hallway between periods and make him blush. Then Jacob would catch Freddy's wrist and drag him away to do it again during lunch.

Jacob planted one hand on Freddy's hip and reached the other around to tug at his dick, hot and hard and practically dripping wet. He jerked Freddy off in time with his own rolling hips, pulling ruthlessly fast.

_"Yes,"_ Freddy moaned, puncturing the sound of skin slapping skin, of Jacob's hand working his slick cock. "Keep going. Keep going."

Jacob darted forward to catch Freddy's lips in a kiss, something simmering in his gut. He felt Freddy shift, then felt the clench of his thighs near-double around his dick. Jacob blurted, "Fuck!" against Freddy's lips, and the orgasm that seemed far away a moment ago caught him off guard. It dragged him under and pounded through his veins and he muffled a cry against Freddy's shoulder as he rode it out, thrusting erratically, coating Freddy's legs and balls in white.

Jacob stood still, leaning hard against Freddy and breathing stunned little sobs into his t-shirt as his heart rate normalized. He forgot about his hand on Freddy's leaking, waiting cock until Freddy's fingers joined his, giving a little pull.

Coming to, Jacob laughed weakly. "I suppose you want to come," he breathed. He lifted his head to kiss the shell of Freddy's ear.

"Yeah," Freddy replied, a little shaky, a little heated. "Kind of."

Jacob straightened up, legs wobbling, and pulled on Freddy's bicep to turn him around. "Here." He planted a straightforward peck on Freddy's lips then tugged up on his dick, recovering the rhythm from before and building up speed. He slipped down to the floor and sipped at the line of his hips, at the crest of his thighs and the cum splattered there.

Jacob had found his way to Freddy's balls again and was lapping at them with gusto when Freddy squeezed his shoulder and whimpered, "Jacob… _Jacob._ I'm…!" Jacob made it back up to his cock in time to catch most of it in his mouth, down his throat.

Thighs trembling, Freddy sank down the wall to join Jacob in a heap on the carpet. Jacob reached out and grabbed him by the collar, pulling him along as he laid back. Freddy settled on top of Jacob, heavy and warm, breaths evening out as he nuzzled into his chest.

Jacob looked at the ceiling, a hand finding its way into Freddy's hair. After a moment he asked, "How'd you get your thighs so tight at the end there?"

"Hmm?" Freddy lifted his face for a moment, chin digging into Jacob's ribcage. "Oh, I uh—I crossed my ankles."

"Smart," Jacob commented. "That's so smart." They stayed still and stayed warm and they collectively ignored the sticky patches drying on their skin. The first bell rang, and neither of them moved.

"I think my thighs are chafed," Freddy told him. Jacob laughed, thinking maybe he'd end up walking funny all day after all.  
  


* * *

  
All in all, the close of basketball season was going Freddy's way. …No, that wasn't right. It was going—not as poorly as it had been.

Freddy was on thin ice with everyone, even the players who had treated him neutrally before. (That could be chalked up to an unauthorized revenge prank pulled by Agnes, Aleck, and Ned during the third quarter at a previous home game. They broke into the locker room and threw everyone's clothes on the shower floor, turning on the showerheads and leaving them there. Everyone's clothes but Freddy's, of course.) So Freddy tried to avoid being around his teammates without Coach Westhouse somewhere nearby. Sure, he couldn't do much against them stepping under him when he shot layups or throwing their elbows at him while going for rebounds—but at least he could avoid a locker room ambush.

It was worth it, though—or so he told himself—to know that the increased aggression toward Freddy was all in service to decreased aggression during games. The new rotation or Animus referees made fair calls for both sides. Visiting teams, used to the biased officials, were visibly shocked and delighted when fouls were doled out equitably. And, once they'd made the playstyle adjustment, Animus was still netting plenty of wins without cheating…not that anyone seemed to notice or care.

So during a game against the West Clapam Clinkers when things started to look the way they used to—the referees blowing the whistle on the opposing team over and over for nothing more than playing the game—Freddy was confused. These were the new refs, the clean refs, unbought and unbiased. His teammates seemed to sense the shift too, and started testing the waters. When a little hand checking went without notice, they upgraded to subtle holding, then outright pushing. Freddy remained in flat denial up until the point where he should have gotten a foul for blocking a player he was guarding, but when the refs blew the whistle they gave the foul to the opposing player instead, for charging. A call that happened next to never and certainly shouldn't have happened then.

They'd gotten to them. Billingsworth, Starrick Senior—they must have bribed the new refs. Freddy was back at square one.

Freddy was teeming with frustration and hatred, and he had nowhere to put it. He easily could have copied the playstyle of his teammates—stiff arming opposing players and jumping off defenders' toes as they lined up shots—but that would have defeated the whole purpose of this failed crusade. He settled instead on gritting his teeth so hard that his jaw would be sore for hours afterward.  
 

* * *

  
Jacob and Freddy had established a new morning ritual. They got to school; they found an unlocked room; they made each other come. Jacob had no idea what their punishment would be if they were found getting busy on a lab table or in between lines of heavy metal shelves in a storage closet, and he didn't care. Honestly, the balance between secrecy and exhibitionism got him real keyed up. He was working up to his dream of humping Freddy into delirium under the bleachers, fingers shoved in his mouth to keep the gym-goers from hearing his moans.

Jacob had another, quite different dream of lazy morning sex in a shared bed in a shared apartment, where they could be as quiet or as loud as they wanted. But that was neither here nor there. What was important now was finding a place to mess around, but they were having a helluva time with locked doors. Jacob was about to suggest a bathroom—they were clean in the morning, after all, so Freddy couldn't fuss about that—when Freddy found a handle that turned.

He eased the door open, peeked inside, then abruptly pulled it shut again. He whirled to face Jacob, eyes huge, face robbed of color.

"What?" Jacob asked. He looked like he'd seen a ghost or, at minimum, an extraordinarily large spider.

Planting his forefinger on the door, Freddy hissed, "There's someone in there!"

"All right, next door," Jacob said and turned to go. Freddy grabbed his arm.

"No, I mean there are _people…in_ there."

Freddy hit Jacob with a significant look, all eyebrows and jerks of the chin. (If it took Jacob a minute to catch up, that was Freddy's fault for being vague.) "Oh!" he said with a saucy smirk. "Dirty rulebreakers. Someone we know?"

With the pad of his finger still planted on the door, Freddy's gaze left Jacob's and flickered all around the hallway, unseeing. He took a stabilizing breath after a moment and looked back at Jacob, jaw set.

"Get out your phone."

Jacob did as he was asked, curious. He nodded at Freddy once he'd started taking video, and Freddy eased the door open, leading Jacob inside.

Past the unlocked door was a boiler room, a maze of pipes and vents. The loud hum from the machines masked the sound of their entry and allowed them to get lined up for a really A+ shot of the couple in white and purple Animus windsuits fucking against the wall, the woman's bare legs wrapped around the man's back as he snapped his hips.

Freddy cleared his throat.

The couple froze for a split second, then scrambled to separate themselves and cover up. Jacob got the first proper look at their faces, flushed and flustered but instantly recognizable: the cheer coach Foster (Jacob knew she was a freak) and—

"Good morning, Coach B."

Billingsworth straightened up, trying to regain some sort of authority even while his comb over was out of place and the outline of his dick was still very visible in his ugly windpants. Jacob had seen him before, of course—he knew the face of his enemy, the grown-up (in)directly responsible for all Freddy's recent stress and injury. But up close he was beyond creepy—gaunt and lean and such a visible sadist that it was remarkable anyone would hire him to work with children. Or to work, period.

"Abberline," Billingsworth said, eyes passing from Freddy to Jacob to the raised phone in Jacob's hand.

Staring at the phone, Foster breathed, "Wait—what are you doing?"

"Taking video," Jacob said, watching the woman's flush fade into pale almost instantly. "You're playing on our court now," he added proudly, nudging Freddy with his elbow.

"What do you suppose will happen when we show this to the superintendent?" Freddy asked. His voice shook minutely, but his stance was straight out of the dogmatic police officer handbook—feet apart, hands on hips. "Or to your spouses?"

Billingsworth held out a hand. "Now now, we don't have to do that. We can work this out, Abberline. …Fred," he amended.

Freddy smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "I hoped you'd say that." Billingsworth and Foster exchanged a tense look.

Freddy swallowed visibly, but when he started to make his demands they came out clear and confident, like he'd been planning this for ages. "You will get new home refs, or at least make the current ones officiate without bias."

Billingsworth's thin lips curled into a frown. "Fine."

"And you will promote fair play on the team, punishing anyone who does otherwise."

Billingsworth crossed his arms, acting for all the world like he was the put-upon one here, and asked, "Anything else?"

"Uh—" Freddy glanced Jacob's way, uncertain.

Jacob blurted, "And you'll give Freddy an award. MVP."

Billingsworth rolled his eyes. "We don't even do awards—"

"MVP!" Jacob repeated loudly. He pointed a finger at the phone, which was still recording. "Or we distribute the sex tape."

Freddy turned back to Billingsworth and nodded firmly. Counting on his fingers he confirmed, "New refs. Fair play. MVP honors. And you two get to keep your jobs."

Billingsworth's nostrils flared and his mouth twisted. But for all his obvious displeasure, he didn't have much of a choice. "Fine," he grunted. "You have a deal."

"Good." Freddy turned on his heel to leave. Jacob backed away, keeping his phone camera pointed at Foster and Billingsworth, at Foster's nervous look and Billingsworth's scowl. "I'll see you at practice," Freddy concluded before opening the door and leaving. Jacob went with him.

Freddy strode away at top speed, Jacob hurrying behind, trying to upload the video to the cloud as he walked. They rounded the corner of the hallway and Freddy broke into a jog. He spun to face Jacob, jogging expertly backward, grinning dazedly.

"Holy shit," Freddy said as he bounded backward, color rising on his cheeks.

Jacob smiled. "Holy shit," he agreed. A squeaky little laugh bubbled out of Freddy, then he turned and sprinted down the hallway. Jacob pocketed his phone and picked up the pace, following several feet behind.

Freddy zipped around the corner and was met with a sharp, "Abberline! No running!"

Jacob caught up to him just as Freddy called, "Sorry, Mr. Brewster!" The frowning science teacher passed through the door to his classroom and out of sight.

"Hey. Good job in there, MVB—Most Valuable Blackmailer," Jacob said, with a squeeze to Freddy's elbow. "Though I admit I'm kind of surprised you went with a list of demands instead of just getting the asshole fired."

"Oh, he's going to get fired," Freddy said. "I'm handing the video over after graduation—it's just too close to tournament time to do it now. Changing horses midstream and all that."

Jacob beamed, practically hemorrhaging pride. "A blackmailer _and_ a liar," he cooed. He reached up to ruffle Freddy's hair and added, "What did I do to deserve you?"

Freddy smacked Jacob's hand out of the way, grinning all the same. Jacob crouched and said, "Here, get up—I'll be the one caught running this time."

Freddy hopped on Jacob's back without hesitation. Jacob bowed under the weight for a second, then straightened up with a good grip on Freddy's thighs. Freddy wrapped his arms tight around Jacob's neck and muffled his laughter against Jacob's temple as they continued their victory lap at a trot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to keep reading, I posted two coincidentally [meal-related Jump outtakes](http://ficthepainaway.tumblr.com/tagged/fic%3A-jump) to Tumblr.


	15. Gooey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddy found himself in a regrettably familiar position: counting down to their formal appointment for a physical intimacy milestone that probably should have been reached organically.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is just this side of PWP, so if you're not into smut, you can comfortably skip it.
> 
> Also, shameless plug: I wrote a big fat Henvie oneshot featuring Templar!Henry. [Read it here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7234630)

Jacob and Freddy had successfully negotiated a (tentative, pending any further rule-breaking) lift to their long-term grounding. It would start on Sunday—which happened to be Valentine's Day. 

"All right, I'm looking at this list of Valentine date ideas," Jacob muttered, scrolling on his phone with his thumb. They were alone in the cafeteria in the early hours before school. It was dim in there, with only half of the fluorescent light banks on. "We've got dinner, dancing, watching the sunrise—oh that's nice—uh, going to a museum or art gallery…"

Freddy blurted, "I think we should have sex."

Jacob looked up from the list, eyebrows raised, then wordlessly laid his phone face-down on the table.

Freddy pressed on: "Not because it's Valentine's Day—I mean, that's part of it. A small part. But it'll be the first time we've been together outside of school for ages, and I think we're ready. I know that…that 'sex' means whatever you want it to mean, and by many measures we're already having sex. But what I'm suggesting is traditional intercourse. I mean, maybe 'traditional' isn't the right word, because 'traditional' makes me think of 'heteronormative' which, hah…well…"

The longer and longer Freddy blathered, the bigger and bigger Jacob's grin got. Finally, Jacob cut him off by saying, "You don't have to convince me." 

Freddy rubbed the back of his neck, not meeting Jacob's eyes. "OK." 

Jacob didn't like it when people weren't looking at him, which was probably why he snatched up Freddy's hand and lifted it dramatically in front of his lips. "Freddy Abberline, I would be  _ honored  _ to take your virginity."

Freddy shielded his face with his free hand. "Please stop," he deadpanned.

"And I'll buy you dinner too."

Freddy sighed, dropped the hand hiding his rosy cheeks, and faced Jacob's smirk head-on. "OK," Freddy said again.

Jacob kissed Freddy's knuckles, then the back of his hand, then quickly up-up-up his arm and shoulder, then proceeded to smother him with a flurry of little pecks all over his face and ears and the crown of his head.

Freddy waved his arms weakly, groaning, "Hey—quit it. My glasses. Jacob, my glasses!" He was rescued from the onslaught by a passing teacher who scolded them (both of them, despite this obviously being a one-sided attack) for PDA.

After they agreed how to spend their Valentine's Day, Freddy found himself in a regrettably familiar position: counting down to their formal appointment for a physical intimacy milestone that probably should have been reached organically. One would think with all the handjobs and blowjobs and dry humping they got up to that it wouldn't feel much different, that Freddy would be comfortable enough with Jacob by now to try something new. Not so. It was their "make-up make-out" all over again, only this time Freddy knew to avoid fried food beforehand.

Jacob guaranteed he could get them an empty house on Sunday afternoon. Cecily spent every Valentine's Day on a spa retreat with friends, but Evie was a tougher case. She met Freddy in the entryway, leaving just as he arrived.

"You have two hours," she said sternly, adjusting the straps of her backpack. "I have an AP Gov paper due on Tuesday that I'd prefer to work on in my own home."

Freddy wasn't quite sure how to respond, but Evie didn't leave him any time to reply anyway. She threw her braid over her shoulder and marched stiffly out the front door with a succinct, "Happy Valentine's Day."

Freddy sat on the bench by the door to untie his shoes instead of just toeing them off. Then he found a spot in the closet for his jacket instead of just tossing it over the back of a chair, which was generally encouraged. He would have found other ways to delay had Jacob not appeared at the end of the hallway, looking perfectly even-keeled and  _ not _ like he had a cyclone rampaging in his gut, rearranging all his organs. 

"Hey," Jacob said, breezy.

Freddy thinned his lips into an uncertain smile. "Hi."

Jacob held his hands out and Freddy took them, letting himself get reeled in for a kiss. "You OK?" Jacob asked, lips just an inch from his. He squeezed Freddy's hands as he said it, two quick pulses. Freddy nodded and squeezed back. "Do you still want to do this?" Freddy nodded some more.

So Jacob kissed Freddy again, a little deeper—about a three on his usual kissing scale, which ranged from tender to filthy. Freddy went along, focusing on how familiar it was, how easy, telling himself that sex with Jacob would feel just the same. He'd just gotten into the rhythm of it when Jacob drew back an inch and murmured, "Let's go upstairs," effectively tying Freddy's insides back into knots.

Jacob led Freddy up to the attic by the hand, and Freddy was warmed to find the bedroom unchanged. Same layout—mattress in the middle of the room surrounded by overflowing shelves. Same smell—the faded scent of air freshener half-masking the scent of weed. It had been so long since their lazy winter break spent kissing and napping that being back made Freddy feel a little nostalgic.

"Do you want to plug your phone in for music?" Jacob asked, dropping Freddy's hand. "We don't have to try and absorb any sound so—up to you."

Freddy hadn't thought to make a sexy playlist. And he imagined if he hit shuffle, Jacob would spend the next two hours, months, years making fun of him for how his music library was dominated by power-pop. (It was good running music, and Freddy would stand by that.) Jacob still brought up the time Freddy unconsciously hummed along to "Jump (for My Love)" now and then, and that was already bad enough.

"Uh, pass." And then, because he hadn't thought to ask Jacob before, too focused on his own nervousness, he asked, "Do  _ you  _ still want to do this?"

Jacob smirked and chose to answer by peeling off his shirt, rolling his abdomen gratuitously as he did so. He made quick work of his jeans and underwear too, and in a moment he was standing casually, proudly naked in front of Freddy. Through varying states of semi-nudity, Freddy had gotten a glimpse all of Jacob's individual parts. But the overall effect was different. And nice. A broad expanse of pale skin and dark hair and heavy muscle, soft at the tummy and colorful where he was tattooed. 

Jacob crooked his finger, and Freddy moved into his space, swallowing thickly. Jacob reached up and starting opening Freddy's shirt, then his fly, sliding his palms over Freddy's hips as he worked his jeans down his thighs. They get caught on his calves and Freddy stumbled a little as he stepped out of them, but (bonus) they dragged his socks off as they went.

Jacob took a break from undressing Freddy to kiss him—to nibble at his lips, to mouth along his jawline. Freddy's hands were shaking, so he kept them occupied—raking through Jacob's hair, skipping down his chest. Jacob dragged him in with hands at the small of his back, stronger than they should be for a life spent lounging around and getting high. Their hips bumped together and Freddy could feel that Jacob's dick was taking interest, but as for his own…

It was fine. He'd get there. Jacob's fingertips still left burns wherever they touched, and every wet flick of Jacob's tongue, every hot exhale breathed onto Freddy's cheek had his heart thumping a little faster. Freddy gave back as good as he got, hands and mouth wandering to all the spots he knew Jacob liked. His collarbone, the nape of his neck, the line of hair beneath his belly button. 

Going slow as though Freddy was a skittish animal, Jacob eased Freddy's shirt off his shoulders, then slid his shorts down his thighs. With Jacob so close—surrounding him, eclipsing his line of sight—Freddy didn't feel particularly naked. They found their way onto the bed, no one really pushing or pulling, then Jacob flipped Freddy onto his back, a knee between his thighs. He worked his fingers into Freddy's hair and yanked his head to the side to mouth along the curve of his neck.

It was after a period of pretty forthright hip grinding and ear biting that Jacob held Freddy down on the bed with one hand and propped himself up on the other, frowning. "Tell me what's wrong."

"What?" Freddy said, dazed. He'd been drifting on a tide of tactile sensation, smashed between the pilly duvet cover and Jacob—warm and heavy, comforting and demanding at the same time.

Jacob pointed his eyes down at Freddy's crotch, then back up at his face.  _ Oh.  _ "You're not into this." 

"No—no I'm 'into this,'" Freddy told him. Jacob lifted an eyebrow in apparent disbelief. "I am! I think I'm just…nervous?" He said it like he wasn't sure, but Freddy knew with absolute certainty that he was suffering from some serious performance anxiety.

"Do you want to stop?" Freddy shook his head, and Jacob pouted down at him. _"Freddy."_

"If I wanted to stop," he replied, slow to make sure it sunk in, "I'd tell you."

Jacob searched Freddy's eyes for a moment, and whatever he uncovered there seemed to satisfy him. "Fine," he said. He levered himself off Freddy and up the mattress. Freddy sat up to watch as Jacob leaned over the edge of the bed to slide a box out from a shelf. "I've got a job for you, then. In the meantime."

Jacob found what he was looking for and tossed it at Freddy, who caught it with both hands. He looked down to find a bottle of lube, then looked up to find Jacob grinning wantonly. "You're going to open me up," Jacob explained.

Freddy's gaze made the journey again—down to the bottle, back up to Jacob. "OK," he agreed. His voice cracked as he said it, and that only compounded Jacob's eager look. He braced himself on all fours, and Freddy kneed forward until he was next to Jacob, eyes following the long cord of his spine and the pattern of hair on his legs. 

He had a pretty good idea of what to do from here, but he accepted Jacob's instructions anyway. _ Lube on these fingers. Rub a little bit first. Actually, keep rubbing. Maybe a bit more lube? That's better—now, up to the knuckle on your forefinger. Wait; hold on. Did you clip your nails? OK, OK, back to it. Slowly, though. _

Just when Freddy thought it was too clinical, too mechanical, it all…shifted. As he eased one finger through the tight ring of muscle, Jacob let out a strangled moan, head hanging. Freddy stopped at the knuckle, waiting. Jacob picked his head up after a moment and looked at him over his shoulder, eyes heavy-lidded and cheeks going pink. 

"Keep going."

Freddy pushed all the way in—slow, slow—his other fingers splaying over the curve of Jacob's ass. He could feel Jacob's muscles fluttering, fighting to relax around the intrusion. Freddy pulled the finger out, careful, steady, then pressed back in. It went a little easier this time, but it was still tight, so tight. The idea of putting his dick in there seem impossible…but also feverishly enticing, especially with the way Jacob's breathing had already gone all ragged.

Freddy set a leisurely rhythm—in, out, in, out—and watched with fascination the way Jacob's body jumped and twitched through it, seemingly out of his control. 

Once his index finger was moving past Jacob's rim without much resistance, Freddy ventured, "Should I—?"

_ "Yes,"  _ Jacob blurted hungrily, arching his back. "Yes, yes. Fuck."

So Freddy added another finger, and Jacob gave up bracing himself on his hands. He dropped forward, ass in the air, and groaned as Freddy stroked the fingers of his free hand over his perineum, his balls. And when Freddy hooked his fingers down, seeking then finding his prostate, Jacob lurched and gasped and melted helplessly into his pillow, fingers twisting in his own hair.

"Is this OK?"

Jacob whimpered a reply into his pillow. "You're doing so great, Freddy—so great. Jesus."

So Freddy kept rocking his hand against him, filling him up, making Jacob whine and shudder. Freddy was feeling starved all of the sudden, needy. He was getting hard too, but redirected the urge to touch himself toward touching Jacob. He bent to kiss the flush at Jacob's hip, his lower back, and when his two fingers were thrusting in easily, Freddy added a third.

Jacob startled and arched his back. Instead of letting Freddy carry on at his gentle pace, Jacob started driving himself back on Freddy's fingers, fast, frantic. He'd seen Jacob turned on before but this was different—this was strange and  _ hot _ and Jacob was panting like he was about to combust. He was watching Freddy hazily, just his eyes visible past the crook of his elbow as he rocked his hips harder, spread his knees farther. 

"Hey," Jacob rasped, muffled. "Hey, do you wanna—" Freddy curled his fingers and kneaded at his prostate, making Jacob cry out and scrabble at the pillow beneath him. "Knock it off! Fuck."

Freddy went very still, afraid he'd crossed a line, guilt unfurling over him and making him blush. But when Jacob pushed himself up on trembling arms, he asked, "Are you going to fuck me or not? Because otherwise I'm gonna come like this."

"Yeah," Freddy breathed, shame evaporating as quickly as it had bubbled up. "Yeah, I can—yeah." Jacob nodded shakily and Freddy drew his slick fingers out of his ass, slow. Jacob pivoted, a little precarious, then hit Freddy with a sloppy, crushing kiss, forcing him down onto his back.

"Condom," Jacob murmured, muffled against Freddy's lips. "Condom, hold on." He extracted himself from the tangle of their legs and slid backward to the crate he'd grabbed the lube from before. Freddy sat up, braced on the heels of his hands, and held his breath as he watched Jacob crawl back and straddle his lap. 

Jacob gently rolled the condom over Freddy's dick and groped around for the lube. Freddy mouthed at his neck while he worked, and Jacob's head listed to the side to give him better access, to let him bite and suck while Jacob slicked up Freddy's cock. 

"Ready, Freddy?" Jacob mumbled, smile crooked as he sat forward, right up in Freddy's space.

Freddy thought,  _ That's not as funny as you think it is,  _ but all he just managed to croak, "Yeah." He swallowed, throat tight. "Ready."

Jacob rose up on his knees and found Freddy's dick with his fingers. He watched over his shoulder as he put it in position, head nudging at the rim, and Freddy barely had time to think  _ oh my god  _ before Jacob was sitting down on his cock.

Jacob sank down slowly, as halting now as he was frantic before, his lips parting and his eyebrows drawing together as he took Freddy inch by inch. Freddy found his mouth falling open too—it was tight-tight-tight, dizzying and heart-pounding and surreal. Jacob was radiating warmth like an oven, and Freddy felt on the edge of a heat stroke. He fell back on his elbows, gasping as Jacob settled all the way down on his cock.

_ "Jesus,"  _ Freddy choked.

Jacob was frozen in place, eyes shut, chest rising and falling with every trembling breath. He grinned as Freddy spoke though, and agreed: "Pretty much."

Then Jacob braced his hands on Freddy's thighs, back bowing, and started to move.

Freddy considered himself a pretty intelligent consumer of porn, but that didn't mean his perceptions of sex weren't skewed by it in the stupidest ways. For one, he'd always fantasized about this in the third person, from a camera's perspective. But in reality everything was suffocatingly close—Jacob's knees on either side of his chest, Jacob's calves pinned against his abdomen. Whenever Jacob leaned forward and braced his hands on the mattress, he was the only thing Freddy could see—and the only thing he wanted to look at anyway, because Jacob's relish for the task at hand was mesmerizing. His expression oscillated between open-mouthed shock and wild, gratified smiles. That combined with his gasped mantra of _"fuck…fuck…fuck…"_ was as responsible for the blood rushing in Freddy's ears and pleasure winding in his gut as the sensation of Jacob bouncing on his dick was.

Which was, by the by, incredible. Tight and hot and lush and had Freddy shifting his focus to not-coming almost right out the gate. 

Freddy dug his fingers hard into Jacob's thighs as Jacob rolled his hips, his fat, slick cock dragging along Freddy's belly. And god, that smooth, light pressure must be killing him. Freddy wanted to touch, but couldn't reach while braced on his elbows—and at the exact moment that that occurred to him, Jacob planted his palms on Freddy's chest and shoved him flat onto his back with a thump. Jacob surged forward to kiss him—wet and a little off-center, hair falling on Freddy's cheek and getting in Freddy's mouth. Freddy cupped Jacob's face to keep him close, and when he tried to draw away, Freddy sunk his teeth into his lower lip, possessive.

Jacob whimpered, frozen in place, and Freddy planted his heels on the mattress to fuck up into him. That wrung a needy, drawn-out moan from Jacob, his voice skipping every time Freddy's hips connected with his, nails biting into Freddy's shoulders, Freddy's chest. 

When Freddy released his hold on Jacob's lip, Jacob immediately dragged him forward by the back of the neck, wanting more, wanting now. Freddy gasped into his sweating skin, kissing and licking wherever he could reach: chest, nipples, the hollow of his throat. Jacob rode him furiously, relentlessly, the sounds of skin slapping skin filling the room.

Freddy laid back and reached forward to squeeze Jacob's cock in one hand, trying to match Jacob's pace. "Touch me, _ fuck yes," _ Jacob breathed, pushing his damp hair back and out of his face. "Touch me. Make me come."

Freddy was distantly aware that this was going quicker than he'd anticipated, but he was not about to deny Jacob that particular request, especially not when Jacob was looking so wrecked—red and wild-haired and ready to burst. Freddy started whipping his hand up and down Jacob's cock, and he felt it twitching in the clutch of his hand, felt the long muscles in Jacob's legs going taut. 

Christ, Freddy wanted to do this every day in every possible position. He wanted Jacob on his back, on his side, bent over the back of the couch. He wanted to try the reverse, see what it was about this that made Jacob so delirious. He wanted to be the one whimpering about the fingers filling him up, Jacob at his ear breathing,  _ "You like that?"  _ Smirking, twisting his fingers, spurring him on.

Jacob kept rocking his hips, kept holding Freddy down on the bed until Freddy felt the first throb and pulse of Jacob's orgasm. He watched greedily as Jacob striped Freddy's abdomen in come, sagging heavily against him, gulping and groaning through it. 

"C'mere," Jacob mumbled, slow and hazy. He started rolling backward, pulling Freddy with him. "Don't stop. OK? Don't stop."

Freddy went with Jacob, assessing the best way to raise his legs and hips with Jacob being as jelly-like as he currently was. "How do you like to…?"

"Mm, sit back on your heels," Jacob said, still molasses-slow. Freddy did, spreading his bent knees. Jacob scooted toward him, resting his open thighs over Freddy's—and Freddy figured out the rest. He dragged Jacob forward until his back lifted off the bed, until their hips connected. He fumbled a bit as he positioned his dick at his rim, shivering as it connected with wet, with heat. Then he thrust in, bottoming out in one long stroke.

Nothing would ever be as hot as the vision of Jacob writhing in his lap, frenzied. But the way he looked at Freddy now, like he was something prized, something amazing—it was a different kind of intoxicating.

Freddy kept snapping his hips, gasping, feeling the sweat gather at his brow and under his knees. He wanted to drag this out, but he could feel the heat, the pressure curling low in his belly. And it didn't help that Jacob was laid out like some kind of obscene centerfold, his legs spread wide, arms above his head, thick cock laying wet and spent on his belly. He was still flushed on his cheeks and his chest, was still panting through his swollen, parted lips. 

Freddy's orgasm hit him like a goddamn solar flare, sizzling and bright and too, too much. He couldn't bite back his moan, couldn't stay vertical. He collapsed on Jacob, who laughed before wrapping his arms tight around him, then his legs, then sealing their lips together in a lush kiss.

"Was that OK?" Freddy asked, once he had enough breath to speak, enough brain power to formulate sentences.

"Yes," Jacob said, chuckling again and kissing his temple. "Yes."

They laid there a while until the afterglow wore off and the sticky disgust set in, then Jacob went for something to clean up, popping open a container of wet wipes then grumbling, "Shit, these are dry. Oh well."

Freddy let himself get wiped down by Jacob and Jacob's not-wet wet wipes, feeling spoiled and feeling happy and feeling something big and sweltering and terrifying blooming in his chest. He liked this boy so much. So, so much, which made it peculiarly sour when the boy said things like this:

"So, about dinner." Jacob tossed the wet wipe in the same waste basket where he'd tossed Freddy's tied-off condom, then he went to work cleaning himself. "It's possible I spent our meal money on weed."

"Possible?" Freddy repeated. Jacob didn't bother to look guilty; he just shrugged. "I could probably cover it," Freddy offered. "Do you still want to go?"

"Not really." Jacob finished wiping down and dragged back the twisted, rumpled blankets on his bed. He climbed in, and Freddy went with him. "Is that OK?"

Freddy let himself be drawn in close, and he laid his head on Jacob's chest, listening to his heartbeat. And because he liked this boy so much—so, so much—he said, "Yeah, it's fine." 


	16. Wide Open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddy had asked Jacob to come to his game on Thursday, which made this Jacob's first ever boyfriend support role. And he was gonna knock it out of the park…or whatever basketball metaphor fit there.

All in all, basketball postseason was going Freddy's way. Truly, this time.

Animus made it to section playoffs (their chance to qualify for the state tournament) and he felt validated that they didn't need to play dirty or buy off their refs to clinch a spot in the lineup. After his and Jacob's boiler room run-in with Coach Billingsworth, Freddy was no longer at risk of being benched for playing too conservatively, nor being thrown off the team for defending himself against his teammates' abuse. And without the obvious friction between him and Billingsworth (now replaced by a kind of chilly truce), his team started treating him less like he a pathogenic fungus. Well, except for Starrick and his buddies, but they were a lost cause.

The dramatic decrease in stress meant Freddy was playing better than he had been all season, and it didn't hurt that it was his old high school's turn to host the playoffs. Engulfed in the familiar sights and sounds of North, having ex-teammates turn out to cheer for him while Animus faced off against other schools—Freddy was in his element, even if he sometimes felt like he was wearing the wrong colors. 

Cumulatively, it had him experiencing flares of something wonderful and unfamiliar: confidence. Which is how he managed to look Jacob in the eye while they were on dinner cleanup duty at the Fryes' on Tuesday and say, "So, we made it to the finals—the qualifying game for state. And it would mean a lot to me if you came on Thursday."

Jacob shrugged and said, "Oh, sure." Like it was no biggie, like he hadn't skipped all of Freddy's games this season in order to stay home and do nothing.

From there, Freddy got permission from Billingsworth to not bus back to Animus with the team after the game. He made plans to meet his friend Aubrey at a diner in their old neighborhood, and he was going to drag Jacob along for burgers and shakes and maybe a late night movie. Win or lose, it was going to be a great night.

While waiting off the edge of the bleachers for their team to be introduced, Freddy was more jittery than usual—and not just because this was a big game. He wasn't sure if having Jacob in the crowd would make him play better or worse. He could be a good luck charm or, like the sexy Animus cheerleaders gyrating on the sidelines, a distraction. God, Freddy hoped Jacob didn't do something over the top like make a sign or paint his face. It would be so like him to double down and make it so Freddy never asked him to show up at a sporting event again.

The announcer boomed something about the Animus Academy Eagles, and their school pep band (seated directly across the gymnasium from the Little Brixton Blighters pep band) started up a song. It was almost immediately subsumed by the mixed cheers and boos of spectators as their team jogged onto the court to start warm-ups.

Between drills, Freddy scanned the crowd for a glimpse of Jacob's unbrushed hair or worn-out flyer jacket. He lifted a hand to return a wave to his dad, who was sitting with his old clique of yell-prone basketball dads from North.

They huddled up some minutes later, and Freddy used the break from running to keep looking for Jacob. "Abberline," Coach Westhouse grunted, snapping Freddy out of his search. He tipped the clipboard he'd been writing on out of Freddy's line of sight. "What's our opening play?"

"Uh—the safe jump," Freddy guessed.

"The _sure_ jump," Westhouse corrected. "Don't make us regret having you on the starting line-up; pay attention."

So Freddy got his head in the game, so to speak, until he was subbed out to take a breather. He took a paper cup of water passed to him by Henry but forgot to drink it, occupied as he was scanning fans in the bleachers one face at a time for the face he wanted to see most.

He didn't want to admit it, but it was getting hard to deny: Jacob wasn't there. Freddy's eyes had always been drawn to him, and at this point he could pick Jacob out of a crowd in seconds, like it was the easiest spread in a children's search-and-find book.

He was subbed back in, but his thoughts remained off-court. Everything faded into the background—the sweat on his back, the squeaks of soles on the wooden floor, the cheers and taunts of the crowd. He executed plays absent-mindedly, muscle-memory and instinct replacing intelligence and calculation. Based on how quickly he was put back on the bench, the coaches took notice.

_Maybe he's just running late,_ Freddy reasoned.  _He'll be here by second quarter._

But Jacob didn't show up by second quarter, or halftime, and the knot that was growing in Freddy's chest calcified, making it hard to breathe. His streak of superb performances came to a halt—he was missing shots, drawing fouls, damn near tripping over his own feet. During halftime, Coach Westhouse pulled him aside to chew him out, to ask him what the hell happened to the player who shouldered through months of arguments and abuse to carry them through playoff season.

Freddy didn't give an answer. Both because "my boyfriend didn't show up for the game" seemed colossally infantile, and because admitting it aloud might make him erupt in equally-infantile tears.

It was just so unfair. How could someone be so oblivious to what was important to their partner? And it wasn't just this game or all the other skipped games—it was spending date money on weed, it was rolling his eyes at Freddy's hints about prom. Since before they were dating, Freddy had been talked and tricked into bending to Jacob's every whim, once even landing in the back of a squad car because of it. But getting Jacob to do anything Freddy wanted was like pulling teeth.

He couldn't do this anymore. He couldn't.

— 

Freddy had asked Jacob to come to his game on Thursday, which made this Jacob's first ever boyfriend support role. And he was gonna knock it out of the park…or whatever basketball metaphor fit there.

It gave him a chance to highway test the N600 besides, which had only been trundling around New Greenwich since it was finished. 

His original plan was to tag along with Evie, but she had some Key Club event and couldn't make the game, so not-fucking-up was down to him. The game started at 7:00, but it was at Freddy's old high school, which meant a 30-minute drive, minimum. So Jacob set an alarm for 6:15 then did his best to wring all the enjoyment he could out of the hours he had between school and sport. He watched TV. He ate an imprudent amount of ice cream. He got high, then ate more ice cream.

And the next thing he remembered was his mother rapping gently on his door, saying, "Jacob, honey? Weren't you going to Freddy's basketball game?"

Jacob groaned and rolled over, knocking the tub of melted ice cream sideways on his bed. He scrambled to pick it up, then grabbed his phone off the floor to check the time. Dead.

"Uh—what time is it?" he called back, sitting up and smoothing his hair.

"A little after 7:00," Cecily replied.

"Shit!" Jacob pocketed his phone and rolled to his feet, looking for his keys. "Shit, shit, shit, shit shit…" Keys in hand, he burst out of his room. Cecily stood well out of his way as he flew down the stairs in a kind of controlled fall.

He went straight for the garage, leaving his jacket behind. In a minute he was skidding out of their driveway and onto the street.

One upside to leaving late was there was no residual rush hour traffic on the freeway. Jacob made good time, pushing his little fixer-upper to 65MPH, then 70, then 75. He was in the city and just a handful of miles from North when his car started to sputter. Then groan.

"You're _fucking_ kidding me."

And right on cue, right on fucking time, his engine cut out.

Jacob managed to change lanes and pull off to the side of the road. He was glad Agnes talked him into adding hazard lights, but couldn't help but wonder if that cursed him. (Though it probably had less to do with the hazard lights and more to do with the fact that he used YouTube tutorials to install the last parts himself.)

He fished his phone out of his jeans to call for a ride—no, for a tow, he needed to get towed—but when he tried to turn it on he remembered: it was dead.

His phone was dead, and his wallet was at home in his jacket pocket.

"Fuck." He slapped his palms on the steering wheel, then pounded a fist on the dash. "Fuck! _Fuck_ me."

Breathing deeply, casting around for a solution, Jacob popped the hood and got out of his car to try and find the damage. Vehicles zipping by so fast it bent the air around him, he gazed blankly at the engine, wishing there was some obvious sign where the problem was. Maybe it was the water pump or—the timing belt? Fuck, he didn't know. He didn't know shit about this car—he never paid attention while Agnes was doing repairs. He only screwed the last couple of pieces into the puzzle—and he didn't know shit about those either.

Jacob spun and squinted at the signs on the nearest overpass to figure out where he was and found the view was…regrettably familiar. He shut his hood, locked his car, and started to walk—crunching through snow made gray by exhaust.

He made it up the off-ramp, slipping all the way to the top, then east along the six blocks separating the freeway from the cheap, crumbling duplex he never thought he'd see again. By the time he was on the front porch, he was shivering harder than he'd thought was possible, the shudders starting at his spine and pushing outward like jackhammers. His feet were sopping, somewhere between painful and numb, and all his exposed skin—hands, face, neck, chest—was definitely frostbitten. Even so, it took a lot of willpower to knock. But he did. He had to.

The porch light clicked on a moment before Roth answered the door. He gave Jacob a once-over, eyes masked by the dusty screen separating them.

"Why, if it isn't Jacob Frye, the boy with the best vanishing act this side of anywhere," Roth drawled, leaning sideways against the door.

Jacob's teeth were chattering too hard for small talk, so he got straight to the point. "Roth, I need your help."

Roth continued like he didn't hear him. "I knew you'd come back eventually," 

OK, so maybe he shouldn't have ghosted on Roth. But in Jacob's defense, he didn't think he'd ever need the guy's help.

He tried to play up the pathetic, channeling Henry Green's uniquely pitiful puppy eyes as he explained, "My car broke down, my phone is dead, and I left my wallet at home. I need…anything. To borrow your phone, to get a ride. I'm sorry. I'm very literally stranded and also running very late."

Roth lifted his eyebrows, assessing. He drew close to the screen door and, eyes alight like he was presenting a challenge, rumbled, "What's in it for me?"

 _"What?"_ Jacob crossed his arms tightly over his chest, hands in his armpits. "Why does there have to be…? Look, I'm getting hypothermia here. What's in it for you is ensuring I don't die."

"Tempting," Roth trilled, drawing back. "What are you late for?"

Jacob glared at him. "For Freddy's basketball game," he mumbled. What was the point in making something up?

"Ah, yes— _Freddy._ The little twunk from the pool, right?" Roth's lips curled into an unfelt smile. "I suspected that was why you stopped answering my texts. And he's dragging you out to events you hate, besides. My my, so many of my predictions are coming true."  

"I don't hate—" Jacob shook his head. Not important right now. "Whatever. Please just help me out, Roth. Please."

"There are so few 'good' ways to end a relationship," Roth explained, and Jacob fought to not roll his eyes. This was still happening. "But I can tell you with certainty that the worst way to break up with someone is to disappear."

"Are you…we weren't even in a relationship! You didn't want a relationship," Jacob sputtered. That was kind of a big sticking point for him, or had Roth forgotten? "Is this really what you want to talk to me about right now?"

"It's not about the labels, Jacob," Roth said, pedantic. "It's about principle. And speaking of…" Roth touched a finger to the screen door to indicate direction. "I'm going to recommend you find a convenience store. They should be able to help you out."

Roth backed into the shadows then threw the door shut. Jacob could make out the clatter of the chain being slid over the door guard. "ROTH!" he bellowed, slapping his palm on the metal screen door, making it shake on its rusty hinges. "Roth, don't fucking leave me out here! Roth, _come_ on!" 

After a few minutes of persistent knocking got him nowhere, Jacob grudgingly took back to the sidewalk. There was no way he was going to make it to Freddy's game. At this point, a "good" ending to the night would involve keeping all his toes.

—

Freddy didn't show up at school the next day. He hadn't answered any of Jacob's calls or texts from after he got his phone plugged in either. Apparently he was taking Animus' loss in the playoffs pretty hard.

Jacob skipped out at lunchtime to go find him, hopping a bus to a floral shop, then another bus to Freddy's—attracting a lot of looks on the second leg of the trip as he fought to keep his bundle of "I'M SORRY" helium balloons from bumping the riders in the aisle.

He walked off at the stop nearest Freddy's and trudged up the sidewalk. He rang the doorbell, then waited.

Freddy opened the door eventually, wearing his lazy day best—sweatpants, thermal, and mussed hair. Freddy narrowed his dark eyes at him, suspicious. "What do you want?"

Jacob dragged the balloons, wilted a bit in the cool air, into sight. "To apologize for missing your game. And to see how you're doing." 

Freddy's eyes fixed on the balloons, impassive, giving nothing away. For a moment Jacob thought he might get the door shut in his face—again, for the second time in under 24 hours—but then Freddy stood back and motioned for him to come in.

Jacob stepped over the threshold and Freddy closed the door behind him. But as Jacob started to unzip his jacket, Freddy held up a hand. "Don't. Don't take off your things."

Jacob dropped his zipper tab and lowered his hands. Thrown off course, he waited for Freddy to make the next move.

Freddy took a heavy breath and said, "I don't understand."

Jacob blinked. He glanced at the balloons to make sure he got the SORRY ones. "Don't understand what?"

"You. I don't understand you," Freddy responded, like it should have been obvious. He folded his arms. "You know most people can expect their partners to support them? Without even asking? For example, your sister makes it to almost all of our games to watch Henry. But I ask you to come to one game— _one game—_ and you can't show up?"  

"I tried!" Jacob protested, making Freddy grimace. "No, I did! My car broke down—didn't you get my messages?"

Freddy sidestepped that completely and, looking at a point above Jacob's head, murmured, "Are you ashamed of me?"

His words hooked into Jacob's skin and dragged him roughly back to a long-ago night with Roth, when Jacob had posed the exact same question. He felt it churn in his gut, ugly and unfair. He wasn't like Roth. He was _nothing_ like Roth. He'd take Freddy anywhere, hold his hand on the street, kiss him on live TV. He'd been privately planning a future for them, researching apartments near the universities that had accepted Freddy's applications, figuring out if there was a way Jacob could pay their rent in full so Freddy could focus on school instead of getting a job. He was…invested. Infatuated. Freddy was the most important thing in his dull little life, which was why Jacob hastened to answer: "No! No, I'm not ashamed of you."

"Really?" Freddy retorted, defensive. "Because I can't think of a better explanation for why you…why you won't come to my games, why you flake on our dates, why you won't ask me to the fucking prom…" 

"Because prom is ridiculous," Jacob explained. "Obviously. Why would I want to go to prom?"

"Because you like dancing!" Freddy snapped, louder now, gesticulating at Jacob with one hand. "And because that's what you _do_ with your high school boyfriend—you go to prom."

This was all slipping away from Jacob fast. He came to distract Freddy after losing a big game. He'd expected cuddles and comfort food, not whatever this was. "That's not—look, if you want to go to prom, we can go to prom." 

"I don't want your pity ask," Freddy spat. Jacob threw up his hands. "I want you to admit that you want to go." 

"What difference does it make? I'm asking—" Jacob pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to focus. "Jesus, how did we get here? _My car broke down._ I missed your game because my car broke down on the highway. I know I disappointed you, but this hardly makes me a villain."

"It's not just about the game," Freddy told him, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I do everything you ask of me because I… _like_ you so much. I let you drag me around to tattoo parlours and clubs I'm not old enough to get into…and, and I follow you out of school while it's in session and into the school when it's locked down. Even though it makes me uncomfortable and gets me into trouble, I do it because it makes you happy and…and when I ask for the littlest things it's a fucking _fight_ to get you to meet me even halfway."

Jacob's mind was whirring, trying to pinpoint an example, a counter argument. He sacrificed things for Freddy all the time! Like…like…dammit.

"And the worst part," Freddy plowed ahead, "is that it's not even because you don't enjoy the things I ask you to do. You _like_ dancing—more than I do! And you watch sports on TV all the time. It's just that you care about preserving your stupid reputation more than you care about me."

"That is _not_ true," Jacob said. Freddy didn't respond, only shrugged, though he just as well could have slapped Jacob across the face.

How? How did Freddy see things that way? Had Jacob not made it clear that Freddy was at the absolute top of his hierarchy of needs? Whenever they were together, Jacob wanted to cling to Freddy like he was a life preserver, breathe him in like he was a drug. Their friends got after him for being starry-eyed to the point of distraction—hell, Freddy even poked fun at Jacob for it, drawing comparisons with the codependent couples on _Wife Swap._

Jacob took a step forward, lifting a hand to touch Freddy's face, but Freddy dodged it. "Don't." 

"Freddy…"

Freddy cut him off. "I want you to leave," he said. He didn't meet Jacob's eyes.

Jacob dropped his hand. Ignoring the little voice that told him it was better not to know, he asked, "Freddy. Are we…fighting, or are we breaking up?" Freddy shook his head. Noncommittal, maybe, but enough to make Jacob feel like he'd been plunged in cold water.

Jacob wanted to say _I love you,_ but a thousand books and movies had told him he was too young and naive to know what love felt like. So what he said instead was, "I don't want this to end."

Freddy tilted his head. "We were kind of a mismatch anyway, weren't we?" Freddy replied, and it didn't escape Jacob's notice that he spoke in the past tense. Freddy still wouldn't look at him, and on closer inspection, Jacob could see why—Freddy's eyes were wet behind his glasses.

"Jacob, please leave." 

Jacob hesitated, trying and failing to invent a way to salvage this. After a moment, he turned and left the balloons on the bench, sitting up the dumb little teddy bear that he'd selected as a weight. He glanced back at Freddy, whose arms were crossed and who was looking so, so small, before opening the door and walking out. He strode mechanically up the street, in the opposite direction of the bus stop.

Jacob's mind was empty, quiet, and his legs propelled him along without him telling them to. He didn't really register the cold or the passing time as he crossed the two miles between Freddy's house and his. He made it home, dropped his coat and hat and boots in the entryway, and was about to climb the stairs when his mother called out from the sitting room.

"Do I hear one of my children in the house well before the end of the school day?"

Jacob paused at the foot of the stairs, one hand on the railing, then turned and trudged in her direction. He walked through the kitchen and dining room and Cecily looked around at him from the couch as he approached. Whatever Jacob was feeling—he couldn't quite name it himself—must have shown on his face, because Cecily's expression softened the moment she laid eyes on him.

"Jacob," she murmured, searching his eyes. "What's wrong?"

Jacob rubbed his palm over his mouth, his jaw. His winter-cooled skin was twinging in the warm, dry air of the house. And as the parts of him that had been numbed by the weather were coming back with pangs of discomfort, the quiet calm that had settled over him started to lift too. 

"I think Freddy broke up with me," he said, hushed.

Cecily's brows drew together in an expression like pity or like pain, and just the acknowledgement of how he felt almost pushed him over the edge. "Come here, Jacob, honey," she said, opening her arms. "Come here."

Jacob went and let himself be folded into his mother's embrace. Cecily didn't ask for details, only rocked him back and forth, rubbed his back. There was something curious about being cared for that had Jacob instantly devolving, de-aging fifteen years in a single tender pat to the back of his head. He tucked his face into Cecily's shoulder and let himself be soothed like a child, sniffling and shaking and at a loss for what to do next.


	17. Jump (For My Love)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Months ago, Freddy had resolved to start standing up for himself. And while perfecting that, he'd apparently lost the ability to let things go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm ashamed to admit I had this chapter planned the whole time. And to add one more jewel to the trash trope crown: **[here's a playlist.](http://ficthepainaway.tumblr.com/post/147977213390/jump-is-a-tall-tower-of-tropes-including-chapters)**
> 
> Thanks so much for all your comments and support, you guys. I'm beyond flattered by the people who got invested in this silly little AU. As for what's next: I have a couple more Syndicate fics to pump out before I'm done with this fandom. So subscribe here on AO3 or [follow me over on Tumblr](http://ficthepainaway.tumblr.com/) to get updates. ♥

Freddy had two boxes in his bedroom, sitting side-by-side on his desk. One was a sort of keepsake box, a collection of things that reminded him of Jacob. Ticket stubs. Paper snowflakes they made with Clara. A set of retro salt and pepper shakers that Jacob had stolen from a diner after Freddy commented that he thought they were neat. "For your first apartment," Jacob had said, chuckling at Freddy's mortified look.

He couldn't have these items around now, but maybe in a year—when he was done lying awake at night, throat burning, wondering what the hell he'd done—it might be nice to look back on them.

The other box contained things that belonged to Jacob and had to go back to him. Forgotten hoodies and tubes of lip balm and food containers that had once been filled with goodies from Cecily. Jacob's fake ID. An old gaming handheld. A spare key for the Frye house. Freddy had put the teddy bear that weighed down the SORRY balloons in there too—face down, because he hated looking at its plastic eyes, all golden and doleful. (He got enough of that at school, where Jacob's gaze tracked Freddy through the cafeteria as he wove between tables on his way to the library, where he was spending his lunches again.)

But as the days passed, items kept migrating from the breakup box to the keepsake box. _Jacob won't miss these,_ Freddy reasoned as he decided to hold onto a notebook filled with Jacob's handwriting, a scarf forgotten after getting nudged under the bed. Months ago, Freddy had resolved to start standing up for himself. And while perfecting that, he'd apparently lost the ability to let things go.

That explained why he was scanning the faces in the gymnasium for Jacob while waiting to receive his promised Most Valuable Player award.

What was originally meant to be a pep rally to cheer on any of the teams that were bound for the state tourney had been converted into a post-season celebration of jobs well done. (Just…not well done enough to advance any team to the championships.) Coaches for all the winter sports gave predictable talks about hard work and determination, and thanked their seniors for the years spent on their respective teams. The school band played; the pom teams for each sport took turns doing 8-counts and leading cheers. It was precisely the kind of thing Jacob would roll his eyes at. Precisely the kind of thing that Jacob would try to get Freddy to skip, in happier times. It was easy to picture: Jacob smiling close and hooking his fingers between the buttons of Freddy's sweater, all the while murmuring, "C'mon. _C'mon."_

The boys' basketball team was the last one up, called to the court by Principal Bartlett and spurred on by spirited cheers and applause from students and faculty. Freddy tuned out Coach Billingsworth's droning, instead losing himself in an internal debate over Jacob's absence.

_Of course he's not here. You broke up with him, remember?_

_But this was a perfect opening to prove me wrong about him being selfish. And he decided to play hooky instead._

_Have you considered this might be painful for him? To see you up here accepting the last gift he'll ever give you?_

_No, no. This could have been a capstone—one last secret for us to share. And he skipped it._

Freddy was so buried in his own thoughts that he didn't hear Coach Billingsworth call him up to accept his Most Valuable Player award. It was a gentle nudge from Henry that brought him back to reality, alerting him to Billingworth's wide-eyed glare (and to Aleck, Ned, and Agnes's whooping rising above the rest of the assembly's polite applause). Freddy twitched and rushed forward, prompting a smattering of laughter through the crowd, and accepted his handshakes and his improvised trophy—a basketball turned metallic gold with the help of fabric paint.

He took his place back in line next to Henry, who was also holding a golden basketball. Freddy wished he knew what it was for.

Principal Bartlett was back at the mic, saying, "One more round of applause for the 2016 Animus Eagles boys' basketball team, everybody!" The students clapped while Bartlett futzed with the mic stand, lowering it a few inches. "Thank you so much to everyone for taking time to celebrate our highly successful winter sports season. Now that the countdown to spring sports kickoff is officially on, our athletic director Mr. Bacchus would like me to remind you that the deadline to sign up to try out for the team of your choice is next Friday."

Freddy nodded to himself, remembering the application for track and field tucked in his backpack, hoping that spring sports wouldn't be near the uphill battle that winter sports had been. He was more thankful than ever that in a few months he would be saying goodbye to this school, to its corrupt basketball program, and to the ex-boyfriend who he couldn't keep out of his head.

"Now, before we wrap this up, we have a joint performance prepared by all the winter sports cheer squads. Enjoy!" Principal Bartlett leaned close to the mic and finished with, "And _go-ooo Eagles!"_

Freddy and his teammates were ushered toward the sidelines, where they joined the girls' hockey team. They looked as relieved as Freddy was that this whole affair was about to be over, even if it meant going back to class.

The cheer teams filed in from the doors on the far side of the gym, a bounding blur of violet and white in the corner of Freddy's eye as he looked back at the bleachers one last time, searching for Jacob there. Music started up over the loudspeakers—an uptempo snare and cymbal beat he knew too well. The synth came in and Freddy closed his eyes, sighing. "Jump (For My Love)." Because he needed more reasons to think of Jacob being an asshole today, including his open disdain for Freddy's very-normal appreciation of vintage pop classics.

The assembly was laughing and wolfwhistling, and when Freddy opened his eyes, his gaze fixed immediately on the reason why.

It was Jacob. It was Jacob Frye at the very front of the V formation, wearing a pleated skirt and a too-tight shell top, looking straight at Freddy with a sheepish grin while he rustled his pom-poms together in a half circle.

Freddy's painted basketball slipped through his numb fingers and bounced off the toe of his shoe toward the middle of the court. Henry scrambled to fetch it for him, but when he returned to the sidelines and tried to hand it back, Freddy's hands were occupied covering his face. He watched the dance routine through his fingers, watched Jacob pirouette and shimmy and snap his pom-poms around in sync with the cheerleaders (all of whom were smiling in Freddy's direction as well).

The pre-chorus kicked off with "I'll take you down, I'll take you down," and Freddy blushed all the way to his toes as Jacob and the cheerleaders spread their legs and circled their hips to the floor, grinding down then kicking their way back to their feet. And the first time the Pointer Sisters sang the word "jump," the dancers did just that, hopping into the air with one arm raised above their heads.

The students' mixed taunts and whistles—which only grew in volume as Jacob proved to be as capable a dancer as the cheerleaders he'd invaded—were a close match for the mixed feelings chasing each other around in Freddy's chest. It was the boyish drag mismatched with the expert dance, the feminine aim of whipped hair and rolled hips mismatched with Jacob's burly, hairy form. And most importantly, it was Jacob's laughable bid to win Freddy back with a public dance routine mismatched with the absurd reality that it just might have been working. Apparently Jacob had taken it to heart when Freddy said Jacob valued his reputation more than he valued his relationship. And so here he was, quashing that carefully curated persona…with choreography.  

Jacob's point about the cheerleaders' oversexed routines was really hitting home as Freddy watched him and the other dancers extend a leg and bend over to drag their hands deliberately from ankle to thigh, flipping up the edges of their skirts. They jogged into a new formation, Jacob still out front, then twirled back to the floor. Bellies down, pom-poms propping up their chins, Jacob and the cheerleaders kicked their legs in time to "you know my heart can make you happy." And just as it was looking reassuringly tame, they all flipped over and arched their backs, hips propped high for "you know these arms can feel you up." Fortunately, any arousal Freddy might have experienced was canceled out by mortification.

Jacob was all flushed with embarrassment or exertion or maybe pride, hair coming loose from his hairtie as he whirled through the final chorus and outtro. They ended with their poms tight to their chests and chins tucked down like they'd been closed into cocoons. The girls called out one last cheer, Jacob lining up in back to effortlessly hoist a lithe cheerleader high into the air, his hands on her feet. And, bless him, he didn't even look up her skirt.

Jacob let her back down and, laughing, she gave Jacob a windmill high-five. A moment later they they were blocked from view by their squadmates, trading hugs and encouragement, casting looks over at Freddy, who was still rooted to the spot, reflexively spinning his basketball in his hands (shoved there by Henry with a silent pat to his forearm). The gym started to empty out—sports players strolling off the court, other students pounding down the hollow bleacher steps.

The legion of cheerleaders sashayed past Freddy, grinning, but Jacob stayed behind. He waited at the center of the gym, half a court away, shifting his weight from one sneakered foot to the other. Freddy jerked his head toward one of the exits less crowded with students and faculty, and they made their way over.

The hallway echoed with the retreating conversations of students walking away in the direction of the cafeteria and classrooms, leaving them almost alone in an area dotted by thick columns and bare but for a few pennant strings. Jacob picked at his hair, at his skirt—jumpy through Freddy's silence. Freddy didn't mean to make him uncomfortable—he just wasn't sure what to say. After a while, he decided to go with the obvious.

"So…" he ventured, holding his basketball against his side. "A dance routine."

Jacob shrugged one shoulder, sheepish where moments ago he'd been giving his all to high kicks and shaking hips. "Me and Aleck watched the last ten minutes of every highly rated romance on Netflix then tabulated the results," Jacob explained. "'Public self-abasement' was by far the most popular way to get someone's attention."

Freddy shook his head, imagining Jacob and Aleck sitting up all night with a giant bowl of popcorn and two lined notebooks, studying. "What was your next move, if this didn't work?" he asked.

"I was going to skip straight to whip cream bikini, actually." Freddy chuckled at that, which made Jacob perk up a bit.

"Were there any options that didn't involve women's clothing?"

"You know, I did ask if they had a male cheer uniform," Jacob pointed out, "but Coach Fondler—"

 _"Foster,"_ Freddy corrected, shutting his eyes.

"—said it was this or nothing." Jacob smoothed his hands down his chest, tugging on the edge of the shell top to close the gap between it and the skirt where his skin peeked through. "I told her I was going to keep it when I was done, though. And I plan to wear it to all your track meets…if you'll let me."

Freddy swallowed hard, feeling what little stubborn desire he had to hold his ground start to crumble. "I mean, you don't have to come to _all_ the track meets," Freddy murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. "They're pretty boring."

"I want to," Jacob rushed to supply, taking a step forward. "The out-of-town ones too. And I want to take you to prom. And senior party. And whatever other school spirit-y things you want to do—I'm down. I'm there." Freddy smirked, and Jacob took that opportunity to reach out with one hand and lace their fingers together. "And I want to hang out every day this summer—I was hoping we could roadtrip, just the two of us. Then I want to come with you to university; maybe get an apartment with you. Or you can stay in the dorms and just visit. Whatever you want; whatever you want. I just want to be with you, and near you. I want to make you happy."

It was a lot to process, but Jacob always had come on strong, Freddy supposed. He was right up in Freddy's space now, and Freddy could practically feel the hopeful suspense rolling off him as he waited for a response.

Jacob may not have understood basic virtues like compromise or reliability, and he may not have been able to come up with a romantic gesture without seeking Aleck's pseudo-scientific counsel. But these few moments spent talking to him were the happiest Freddy had felt in over a week. He was reminded all at once of the many things Jacob hid under his toughie persona, namely how he was sweeter and more loyal than a goddamn golden retriever. Sure, he would be the kind that chewed up your things and dug holes all over the backyard, but he always would seem to feel sorry about it afterward.

And it wasn't just that Freddy couldn't endure Jacob's miserable puppy dog stare anymore. He liked him. He couldn't imagine not liking him. He didn't want to think of a future where he wasn't being woken up by the buzz of Jacob's 3:00 a.m. text messages, nor soothed into a later recovery nap by Jacob's fingers on his spine. Jacob took what would have been an unbearable year for Freddy at Animus Academy and filled it with kisses and…and love.

He wasn't ready to let go.

"Okay," Freddy murmured, nodding. "Okay."

Jacob blew out a held breath and wrapped his arms around Freddy's shoulders, pulling him in tight and burying his face in his hair. Freddy dropped his basketball (sending it bouncing away from him for the second time that day) and hugged Jacob back, inhaling the smell of sweat, shampoo, and a slightly-musty cheer uniform retrieved from storage. He'd missed him so much, and having him back was testing his tolerance, was ballooning in his chest and stinging his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Jacob whispered.

"Me too," Freddy returned, squeezing Jacob so hard he was likely bruising his ribs. He loosened his grip and rested their foreheads together, steadying himself. Jacob reached up and thumbed along Freddy's jaw, rubbed his earlobes. They stayed quiet and still, resetting to normal.

Freddy was drifting, losing their surroundings for a moment. Then Jacob whispered, "Catch me," and Freddy snapped back into reality.

"No! Jacob, _wait—!"_

But Jacob was already winding up and springing into Freddy's arms. Freddy barely managed to use their toppling momentum to pivot and pin Jacob against the wall, catching himself with one hand against the concrete, fingers digging into the grout between the bricks. Freddy shoved his glasses up his nose before getting both hands under Jacob's ass, holding him in place.

Jacob crossed his ankles behind Freddy and gave him an encouraging little kick with his heels. "Nice work," he cooed, smile all sharp-toothed and wicked. Freddy glared, temporarily sullen, until Jacob cupped his face in both hands and dipped down for a kiss.


End file.
